


too afraid to love you

by kkingofthebeach



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Drug Addiction, M/M, Piningjolras, Slow Build, like you wouldn't even believe just unadulterated pining enjolras, lots of smut eventually i promise, this is set in london so that i could get political (i only know basic french politics sorry)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 170,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kkingofthebeach/pseuds/kkingofthebeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Grantaire is nothing good. Enjolras doesn’t need to know anything more about him to be sure of that. He brings weed to his neighbours’ house and plasters himself all over people he doesn’t know. He smells like cigarettes and whiskey and looks starved. He’s got rough hands and dark circles under his eyes that make him look sickly. He’s trouble embodied, but Enjolras doesn’t want to let go; he can’t make himself do it.</i>
</p>
<p>[grantaire is a drug addict and enjolras is a university dropout with a history of bad ideas; featuring a group of misfit friends who just want to change the world and live dirty hedonistic lives while they do it]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. housewarming

**Author's Note:**

> greetings ppl, gonna burst into les mis fandom with this monster of a fic
> 
> obligatory shout-out to joni for being cheerleader and never-ending love to anna who is subject to my ever thought on this story, she's a goddess. and come [say hi on tumblr](http://between2devils.tumblr.com)?
> 
> NB: I just posted chapter 18 and i decided to update the description because it feels super cringe and stale to me - but yes this is still the original junkies au!

The house warming party is Courfeyrac’s idea – which honestly, is not surprising in the slightest. He says that they’ll end up with a ton of free booze to keep them in stock for a good few weeks, and maybe some free food or nice things for the house. What Courfeyrac doesn’t take into account, is that while their friends are all sorts of lovely, they are also awful and stingy and _students_.

Enjolras tries to put his foot down by suggesting they all go out instead – which lasts all of ten minutes – but Combeferre thinks it’s a nice idea that might make them feel more at home. And because it’s Combeferre it sounds too convincing to pass up, and he even assures Enjolras that if they keep most of their boxes unpacked the house will survive. 

Enjolras will begrudgingly admit that it’s a good idea. The house does need something to make it feel like home, since that’s definitely what it is now. Not their old student halls or their parents’ houses – just this cheap terraced place in East London, with damp creeping across the ceiling of the cupboard under the stairs, and a hole in Enjolras’ bedroom wall. 

It’s not a nice house at all – and it’s in a really grimy area to top it all off. Enjolras isn’t exactly complaining, after all this is _their_ fault and _their_ choice, but he would prefer to be living somewhere where he’s not vaguely afraid of going down to the pub on the corner. They each could have retreated back to their parents’ houses with their tails between their legs, but this is decidedly better than that. 

Besides, even their friends who weren’t asked to leave university are moving into almost equally shit student housing. Marius is still trying to avoid his family and has got a miniscule room near Angel, Joly and Bossuet are getting a place in Chalk Farm, and Jehan has managed to squeeze a roomier flat in Bethnal Green out of his parents. 

Speaking of Jehan – he’s the first to arrive and Enjolras immediately regrets going along with this plan. Jehan has been away for part of the summer already and this is the first time they’ve all seen him since, and Courfeyrac is positively ogling him and his new tan. 

“How are my three favourite hooligans?” Jehan says brightly as he steps through the door, thrusting a present at Enjolras happily as he moves in to hug Combeferre and Courfeyrac. 

“Where have you _been_ – another _universe_? You didn’t even burn, you absolute wanker!” And Courfeyrac already has his hands in Jehan’s new haircut, his mousey hair longer than it was in June and blonde at the tips, falling in waves at his shoulders. “And what is _this_?” Courfeyrac plucks a clump of Jehan’s long fringe between his thumb and forefinger and twirls it. 

“What are you doing—get _off_ you big idiot,” Jehan laughs, only pushing him away lightly as he tries to flatten his hair back down to normality. Pink spreads quickly over his cheeks and up the back of his neck, but nobody says anything about it. 

“How was Morocco?” Enjolras asks as he puts Jehan’s gift on the wooden coffee table they salvaged from a flea market last week. 

“Beautiful—I sat my parents down in a shisha bar for two weeks while I picked up some Arabic and wrote poetry for strangers—did you know Tennessee Williams and William Burroughs spent time in Morocco?” Jehan floats around the house in that easy and excited way he so often does, making it look ten times less drab as he runs his fingers along cupboards and taps the beige walls. 

Courfeyrac snorts and pulls on the end of Jehan’s hair as he passes him on his way to the kitchen. “Are you telling me _you_ didn’t sit _yourself_ in front of a shisha pipe every day?” 

Jehan trips over his own feet and looks as though he’s very close to sticking his tongue out at Courfeyrac. He settles for punching him in the arm hard enough to make Courfeyrac yelp as Combeferre hands out beers. 

Enjolras really doesn’t want to know what’s happening, not at _all_ , and he decides it’s going to be a long night. He really needs more of their friends to be here so that he can pretend to be blissfully unaware of the goings-on between Courfeyrac and Jehan, but he’s settling for submerging himself in conversation with Combeferre in the mean time. 

He can’t quite drown them out though. 

“I learnt how to make hash fudge cakes, and if you’re very good I’ll share some with you.” 

Enjolras and Combeferre both turn around to see a raging blush working its way across Jehan’s entire face and he looks half-embarrassed about what he’s just said, but not enough to prevent the look he gives Courfeyrac that makes him choke on his drink. 

Enjolras counts his blessings that Joly and Bossuet show up quite soon afterwards, and he ushers them in with what Joly helpfully calls ‘suspicious urgency’ instead of the good hospitality he was aiming for. 

As far as parties go – this is a fairly sad excuse for one. Nobody feels quite as happy as they should, and the atmosphere is almost bleak as they all sit squashed together on the sofa and tap their fingers on beer cans. Courfeyrac’s playlist that’s being blasted through the house isn’t even enough to get them all up on their feet and thinking about the future with a nervous kind of giddiness. At this point, Enjolras regrets agreeing to the party even more. 

At Courfeyrac’s behest, Enjolras and Combeferre go on a quick vodka run to the off-licence down the road, since they’ve all agreed that cheap beer and Lana Del Rey just isn’t cutting it. What starts out as a vodka run turns into an actual frantic sprint, when Combeferre belatedly remembers that they have left their house under Bossuet’s charge. Bossuet—who, admittedly, is more responsible than Courfeyrac at party—has also been known to near destroy a communal kitchen while _sober_.

They return home to only one tragedy – the door of the cupboard under the stairs is hanging limply from one hinge, and Joly is shouting about splinters and infections as Bossuet tries to lean the door back into place. Enjolras thinks to himself that maybe that was for the best, since Jehan would only have hotboxed the thing later anyway. He’ll leave it to Combeferre to worry about the bollocking the landlord will give them if finds out they’ve already _detached a door._

Courfeyrac has a renewed energy when Enjolras and Combeferre disappear into the kitchen with the vodka and various mixers, and he wastes no time in cornering them there. He dallies around for approximately two minutes, mixing drinks in mugs and plastic cups and handing them to Enjolras and Combeferre, before he can’t contain himself any longer. 

“Jehan’s looking very lovely tonight—” Courfeyrac doesn’t even get to finish before Combeferre and Enjolras are cutting in at the same time.

“Please stop.” 

“Courf, _no_.” 

“ _What_?” 

Combeferre stares at him incredulously, even a little terrified. “He’s our friend – you can’t sleep with him!” 

“Look, as a mostly sober man I swear that I have only the purest of intentions towards Prouvaire. But I cannot be held responsible for what my drunk self _may_ end up doing.” He shrugs as though it’s nothing, but Combeferre doesn’t look any less worried. If possible he looks _more_ worried. 

“You are the absolute worst,” Combeferre groans, reluctantly admitting defeat. 

“Yes but you love me, and that’s what matters!” Even Enjolras’ scowl softens into an eye roll when Courfeyrac’s grin almost splits his face in two. 

“Since when have you been interested in Jehan anyway?” Enjolras asks suspiciously, not expecting Courfeyrac to actually _blush_.

“No—this is not an interrogation—don’t do that!” Courfeyrac splutters, his voice becoming unnaturally high pitched. He jabs a finger into Enjolras’ chest before pointing it at Combeferre menacingly, then disappears into the living room with a bottle of vodka. 

Marius shows up a little while later – much to Courfeyrac’s delight, judging by the way he flings himself at him instantly. He’s brought Eponine with him, but she’s slinking off as soon as Marius starts mooning over some girl he saw pinning up flyers for a new literary society at the university.

The music changes to some hideously perky song that Enjolras is _definitely_ not drunk enough for, so he flops down next to Combeferre on the sofa. There’s a small pile of gifts accumulating on the coffee table, most of which are clearly bottles of (cheap) wine or Tesco’s vodka, wrapped haphazardly in newspaper. A couple of them look interesting though; the square package neatly covered in crêpe paper and sparkly stickers is obviously Jehan’s, and the one in an actual gift bag must be from Joly. 

“Eponine’s here,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras quirks an eyebrow at him. 

“Yeah, she tagged along with Marius.” Combeferre nods thoughtfully, still staring into space absently, so Enjolras elbows him in the ribs. “Is something—” 

“No. I don’t know. Stop that – don’t give me that look, I’m not Courfeyrac.” He eyes drop to the box in Enjolras’ lap. “Is that from Marius?” 

Enjolras nods and holds it up to the light, the fancy wrapping paper shimmering under it. “Looks expensive.” 

“Keep it far away from Bossuet and Courfeyrac then.” 

“Do you think we can open the rest of these? Or will Courfeyrac have our heads?” Enjolras and Combeferre look towards the pile, fingers itching to tear at the shoddy wrapping of everything. 

Combeferre cranes his neck to cast a glance at Courfeyrac back in the kitchen, probably mixing drinks that will end up knocking Marius off his feet after a few sips. 

“I think Courfeyrac will understand – besides, he’s being the good host, he’s busy.” Combeferre has a devious glint in his eye and Enjolras grins, ripping open the present in his lap.

In his hands is a bottle of very nice-looking whiskey, though he suspects it was originally a gift for Marius from that rich grandfather of his. But it’s not as though they’re going to turn down actual good whiskey just because it’s been pawned off on them – they’re not _idiots_. 

Combeferre goes for Jehan’s present, which turns out to be some kind of care package (and the first of many to come). It’s really just an old shoebox that’s been lined with more crêpe paper and filled with an array of Jehan’s favourite goodies: scraps of poetry for the fridge, incense sticks, some small scented candles, condoms of _many_ flavours, a generous baggy of weed, and an _awful_ photo of Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre that he took while Freshers’ week was in full swing and the alcohol was too cheap for their own good – it’s sitting inside a hideously tacky ‘ _best friends’_ novelty frame. 

Eponine makes her way over and joins them as they’re unveiling various bottles of wine – most likely all bought from the nearest corner shop for a fiver, or maybe even a splurge of ten pounds if they were feeling generous. Eponine has wriggled her way between Enjolras and Combeferre and unscrews a bottle of red, taking a swig straight from the bottle.

“What’re you doing down this neck of the woods anyway?” She asks, looking from Combeferre to Enjolras curiously. “Did mummy and daddy disown you and confiscate your savings when they found out what happened?” Combeferre flicks her in the knee and Eponine pinches his cheek in return, Enjolras snatching the wine from her at the same time. 

“Technically I don’t think they can actually do that. And no, they haven’t. My parents asked me to come home.” Enjolras washes away the sourness in his mouth with an even sharper gulp of wine. Eponine throws her head back and laughs at the look of distaste on his face. 

“What about you Combeferre – did your parents beg you to come home, offer to hook you up with a fancy job through some _high-society_ connections?” 

“No, but if I fall short of money I’ll be sure to ask you about joining the Thénardier family business of distributing suspiciously acquired alcohol and general scamming.” 

Enjolras passes the bottle to Combeferre before Eponine can smash it over his head. 

She doesn’t though, which is both relieving and maybe slightly worrying. 

“Oh, so feisty already!” Eponine shoves at the side of Combeferre’s head and ruffles his hair roughly. “Keep it up and maybe your pretty face won’t get mugged after all,” she smirks, Combeferre swatting her hand away. 

The bottle of wine passes back and forth between the three of them as they make idle chatter about what’s been happening over the summer and what exactly they plan to do with their lives now. Meanwhile, Courfeyrac and Bossuet are relentlessly trying to get Marius to dance, plying him with alcohol while laying on the charm to distract him. Jehan and Joly are on the other side of the coffee table, trying to waltz in the small space as Joly clumsily twirls Jehan around in circles. 

That first bottle of wine is soon long gone, and Courfeyrac has them all sitting around the table and taking shots of the tequila that they found left over in a dusty cupboard. It’s at this point that Eponine pipes up suddenly, practically jumping up and down as she slaps her hands down on the table and tries to get everyone’s attention. 

“Have you met your neighbours yet?” She asks excitedly, eyes darting between Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac. 

“Well we haven’t seen them around so—” 

“So you haven’t met the guys from number 32?” She’s leaning across the table now, eyebrows rising higher up her forehead as she stares down Enjolras. 

“No… why?”

She smiles wickedly and sits back on her heels. “I know them. They let me crash on their sofa sometimes – they’re cool guys.” She pauses and chews on her lip for a second, then quickly sits up straighter. “You should go—you should invite them over.” 

Enjolras knows that this is bad idea from the moment he sees Courfeyrac perk up with anticipation, eyes wide and body thrumming at the thought of it. 

“Yes— _yes_! Let’s go—now—we can knock on their door and invite them to join the festivities!” Courfeyrac is scrambling to his feet and urging Eponine up too, then pestering everyone else and trying to drag them upright. 

Enjolras easily chases away Courfeyrac’s fumbling hands, and he grabs his wrists and stops him right in his tracks. “We can’t go over there— _you_ especially—we don’t even know what they’re like!” Enjolras protests, but Courfeyrac just rolls his eyes and grins harder, his dimples becoming even more profound. 

“Eponine knows them—”

“ _Exactly_! How is that comforting?” 

“Hey!” 

“Well you do know a lot of shady people, Eponine,” Joly points out, and there’s a collective murmur of agreement that she shrugs off easily. 

Combeferre shuffles closer to Enjolras and lays a hand on his shoulder, saying, “It’s not such a bad idea. They’ve probably been listening to Courfeyrac’s music all night anyway – it’s only polite.” 

Courfeyrac, of course, takes this to be a definite _yes_. 

It’s a surprisingly quick job actually – Courfeyrac has gone and come back again in the span of about ten minutes. Enjolras is sure that if anyone else but Courfeyrac had gone over there, they would not have three strangers being ushered into their living room right now. 

Courfeyrac stands beside them giddily, shouting, “Look! We have neighbours!” And gives Eponine a pat on the head for her good work—which she scowls angrily at. Eponine pushes him aside, sending him stumbling backwards into Jehan, and she introduces the three boys one by one. 

Feuilly stands on the left: tall and rather lanky, but he carries himself in a relaxed slouch, matching the lazy half-smile on his mouth too. Enjolras wonders if it’s rude to wonder he’s either an artist or just sloppy, but decides it’s entirely justified when the guy has a mop of strawberry blonde hair swept up haphazardly into a bun with a pencil, as well as a cigarette tucked behind one ear. 

Bahorel is in the middle, his dark skin looking all the more prominent next to his friends—who look like they haven’t seen sunlight in a good few years. His laugh bellows happily throughout the entire house when Jehan comes up from behind and whispers something in his ear, a mischievous glint in his eye. He also looks like the only person in the room with any ounce of real muscle-power, obvious from where his arms are crossed against his chest and stretch his t-shirt. 

And then there’s Grantaire. He’s a scrawny little thing – or at least he looks that way. Later, Enjolras will realise that he’s not half as scraggy as he looks, but right now he’s swamped in a dirty white t-shirt with sleeves messily rolled up at the shoulders to hide how baggy it is. The thing about Grantaire is that he hasn’t stopped staring - unabashedly gazing at Enjolras with an unreadable expression, locking onto him with bright blue eyes from underneath a tangle of thick, dark curls. 

It’s awfully off-putting—Enjolras is trying his best to listen to Bahorel talk about how they were wondering if they’d ever actually see their new neighbours—but Grantaire is still staring, and when Enjolras makes eye contact he just breaks into a small, crooked smile. 

Enjolras has already decided that Grantaire is completely terrible, and he’s not sure he can stand much more of it. 

He definitely does not run away, but he does sneak into the kitchen to fix himself a new drink. This in itself is worrying, because he’s almost consumed a Freshers level of alcohol already, and he really shouldn’t be getting any more down him. But he can hear Grantaire teasing Marius and the squeals of Eponine being picked up by Bahorel, and he just needs something to steady his head. 

And of course, he ends up getting the opposite effect because he is an embarrassingly lightweight nineteen-year-old. 

Feeling far more lightheaded than he’d like, he steps outside with the intention of getting a good lungful of fresh air. Instead, he stumbles straight into the path of Grantaire, who is sitting on the low wall that separates the patio from the small garden. He doesn’t say anything, just plucks the cigarette from his mouth and stares as unabashedly as he had earlier. 

“Hello,” Enjolras says suddenly, just to fill the silence. His voice sounds unusually scratchy and unused, and it makes him flinch.

Grantaire’s mouth spreads into a slow smile as he gives Enjolras a once-over and leans back on his hands. “And what might your name be?”

Enjolras doesn’t quite mean to hang on to his every word, but he just really hadn’t expected someone so dishevelled to be so well spoken, his voice a little rough around the edges , from smoking, no doubt. 

Grantaire’s smile only grows wider as he goes on, “Or shall I guess? Something that does you justice, I hope. How about Apollo—” 

“Enjolras. I’m Enjolras.” 

“Wonderful,” Grantaire holds out his cigarette, “would you like a puff, Enjolras?” 

“I don’t smoke—” he starts, then, “Is that a _spliff_?” His feet carry him over to Grantaire, where he sits down and sniffs at the air. It’s not like he’s a mollycoddled _baby_ – he went through high school with Courfeyrac as a best friend, and Jehan can sometimes be mistaken for an actual moving cloud. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes and takes a long drag, blowing smoke right into Enjolras’ face. Enjolras blinks as the smoke stings his eyes and makes them begin to water. 

“Is that a problem?” Grantaire asks sweetly, but he’s trying very hard not to laugh. 

“No.” A breeze passes through and makes the hair on Enjolras’ arms stand on end. Either that, or it’s Grantaire’s devilish smirk. 

“Are you having fun?” 

Enjolras thinks for a moment. “I’m not sure.” 

Grantaire licks his lips, looking like he’s on a mission. “Well we can’t have that,” he murmurs, and his eyes flicker down to Enjolras’ mouth. “Stay right there.”

Enjolras does exactly that when Grantaire leans towards him with a mouthful of thick smoke, stopping just before their lips can touch. Enjolras is still thinking about the slither of air like a glass wall between them, when the smoke passes straight through it and fills his mouth with sticky-sweet warmth. He swallows it down obediently, not even thinking about it. 

He breathes the rest back into Grantaire’s mouth and considers leaning in just a little bit closer, suddenly intent on knowing if Grantaire’s lips feel as inviting as they look. But any hope of finding out is quickly dashed as Grantaire pulls away with flushed cheeks and dark eyes. 

“Um, I need to—I just have to get something,” Grantaire says quickly, jumping to his feet and glancing back to his house over the fence. His runs a hand through his hair and throws Enjolras a smile that sort of makes him want to kick Grantaire. “See you around, maybe.” 

Enjolras half expects Grantaire to jump the fence, but he just scurries back into the house without another word. By the time Enjolras shakes himself back to Earth, Grantaire is nowhere to be seen and the party is finally in full swing. Dusk has darkened the house, and the living room is only lit by the glow of Courfeyrac’s ipod and a few candles scattered around flat surfaces.

Jehan, Feuilly, and Bahorel have crawled under the broken door and are passing a joint around in the cupboard, while talking very seriously about the political parallels in X-Men. Marius is literally running away from Courfeyrac, who is holding an empty bottle and shouting, “Marius, it’ll be a fun and formative experience!” The others have pushed the few pieces of furniture to the walls and have taken dancing to new extremes – Eponine is on Combeferre’s back and is making him spin around in circles, while Joly keeps Bossuet out of their line of fire. 

It’s nice, Enjolras thinks, this small addition to their circle of friends. They could do with a few more, and the three from next door do seem to be genuinely friendly people, even if Grantaire is a bit weird. Enjolras goes to the kitchen to splash some cold water on his face and get a glass of water, but when he turns around Grantaire is back again. He’s not sure why the thought occurs to him, but he realises that there’s nowhere to hide in their open plan kitchen-living-dining area. 

Enjolras stays frozen where he is, watching Grantaire on the prowl about the room, slinking around people and boxes with a feline grace and a wicked glint in his eye. Eyes that, when Grantaire finally clocks Enjolras and approaches him, Enjolras realises are much darker than they were before. They’re not just dark, they’re _big_ , his pupils dilated as far as they’ll go and swallowing any light around the edges.  

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks quickly as Grantaire crowds him against the sink slowly. He laughs to himself, the sound gooey and delicious as it shakes his body a little. 

“You should be dancing, this is a party,” Grantaire drawls, the words following one another slow and deliberate, like he’s drunk on something that Enjolras can’t even begin to imagine. 

And he is, he really is.

Grantaire walks backwards out of the kitchen, dragging Enjolras with him by the front of his shirt. He must recognise the song that’s playing, heavy guitars and too much reverb, because he’s humming along under his breath as Enjolras tries to work out what the hell is happening. He tries to get his hands around Grantaire’s wrists, but Grantaire just loops his arms around his neck instead, his movements so smooth and fluid that Enjolras can’t seem to catch him.

He slows down then, and Enjolras feels his brain conking out of action as Grantaire pulls himself closer, wrapping himself around Enjolras as if he wants to crawl all the way inside, his fingers slipping beneath fabric and teasing skin, hips pressed hard enough against Enjolras’ to make him dizzy and too hot. People are probably looking, they’re probably watching and talking, but Enjolras wants so badly just to reach out and touch, to feel if Grantaire’s milk-white skin is as cold and soft as it looks. And _that_ is a very new feeling. 

Grantaire is nothing good. Enjolras doesn’t need to know anything more about him to be sure of that. He brings weed to his neighbours’ house and plasters himself all over people he doesn’t know. He smells like cigarettes and whiskey and looks starved. He’s got rough hands and dark circles under his eyes that make him look quite sickly. 

He’s a walking, talking, smirking embodiment of trouble, but Enjolras doesn’t want to let go; he can’t make himself do it. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Grantaire says right into his ear, the stubble on his chin scratching against Enjolras’ neck. “You must be out of a dream. Am I dreaming yet?” He slumps forwards and goes slack in Enjolras’ arms, fingers tightly holding on as manages to get his boneless body even closer to Enjolras. 

Enjolras panics for a moment, worrying that Grantaire has somehow become too drunk to stand in the time they’ve not seen each other. He tries to hoist Grantaire up by steadying his middle, but his head just flops forwards again, landing somewhere on Enjolras’ chest as Grantaire laughs contentedly. 

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asks, holding Grantaire out at arms length to try and get a look at his face. This turns out to be a mistake, because Grantaire goes stumbling backwards until he hits the sofa, and flops down onto it with his arms and legs spread out. 

As Enjolras goes over, the track marks on the inside of Grantaire’s elbows are staring up at him, plain to see. They’re purple and pink against his pale skin, and there’s a little bit of dried blood next to one. He stands where he is, looming over Grantaire as he stares and thinks about the fact that he’s got a junkie sprawled across his sofa. Turns out that there isn’t much to think about – Enjolras’ mind is disturbingly void of any thought, and Grantaire isn’t helping as he watches Enjolras from where he’s sitting, looking like pure sin. 

“Would you like a hit, darling?” Grantaire looks completely wrecked, hair matted and cheeks flushed, as he stares up at Enjolras through heavy-lidded eyes. 

Enjolras is sure that he’s about to keel over or stutter out some nonsense or just call Combeferre to rescue him, but he’s still standing completely still (except for some slight wobbling of his feet) when Bahorel bounds over and sweeps Grantaire up in one motion, announcing something about getting the baby to bed. And then Grantaire is gone, again, and Enjolras is left with nothing but Eponine at his side raising one eyebrow. 


	2. musain

When Enjolras trundles downstairs in the morning he finds the house surprisingly empty. After getting Grantaire next door again, Bahorel and Feuilly had re-joined the party and stayed for a while, going home around two AM. Everyone else had stayed the night and found various places to sleep (when had Enjolras stumbled into the upstairs bathroom during the night he jumped right out of his skin when he found Bossuet curled up in the bath). But as he wanders through the living room and into the kitchen now, it seems as though everyone has gone on home while he was still sleeping. 

Combeferre is sitting at the circular table that supposedly separates the kitchen from the living area, reading yesterday’s paper with a stack of toast next to him. Enjolras rubs at his eyes as he tries to surreptitiously swipe a few slices, but Combeferre effortlessly swipes his hand away without even looking up from his paper. 

“Feed your own hangover,” he mumbles eventually, peering over the top of his glasses at Enjolras. “Although, if you’re putting the kettle on—” 

“Yeah, yeah, tea for everyone. Is Courfeyrac up?” 

“Don’t think so. Hardly surprising considering he drank enough to knock an army out.” 

Enjolras gives him an eye roll as he rummages for clean mugs – of which they conveniently have none – while the water boils. They haven’t been in this house long, but they’re already establishing something of a morning routine. House rule number one: first person to make tea brews for everybody. If Enjolras happens to be awake when Combeferre is, Combeferre reads him out snippets and headlines of the paper while Enjolras gradually becomes a functional human being again. When Courfeyrac is not hungover to hell and is happily up and running, he might even be convinced to cook a giant fry-up. 

Courfeyrac, however, is still deep in the recesses of his bedroom, so while Combeferre reads aloud, Enjolras pops four slices of bread in the toaster. He is in dire need of dry toast to remedy the hangover that he will fully deny he is nursing. In fact, he’s about to blame the non-existent hangover for what he sees next, which is _clearly_ some kind of hallucination. 

“Jehan,” Combeferre says with an air of surprise, and Enjolras stares at Jehan frozen on the spot. He looks suspiciously like he’d been trying to sneak out unnoticed, and desperately mortified to boot. His mouth is open as he blushes furiously, and Combeferre is smiling wryly at his messy hair and the shirt that has been stolen from Courfeyrac. 

“Fucking hell, my life is a tragedy…” Jehan mutters to himself, shifting his weight from foot to foot awkwardly. 

Enjolras frowns at him, not entirely sure what to think yet. He decides to get straight to the point. “Where did you sleep?” 

Jehan scowls and tries to smooth out his hair. “Shut up, or I swear to God I will break your arm.” Combeferre chokes on his toast as he barks out a laugh, offering a half-hearted apology to Enjolras when he goes sulking back to the kettle. 

“Well stay for breakfast then,” Enjolras says, his back to the room as he fills up three mugs and sets his toast on a plate. When he turns around again Jehan is sheepishly sitting at the table, bobbing his knee erratically and tapping his fingers. 

“This feels much more awkward than it should be,” Jehan sighs eventually, resting his chin on one hand gloomily. He stands up again restlessly, paces for a few seconds, and then decides on making his own batch of toast. 

Enjolras brings the tea over to the table and sits down. He very tactfully resists laying his head down on the table and letting out a series of groans. “Well it is you we’re talking about,” he says, and Combeferre shoots him a glare of warning. “Sorry, it’s just that, well, we told Courfeyrac not to.” 

Enjolras braces himself for Jehan to turn on them, but nothing of the sort happens. He just shrugs nonchalantly and says, “Yeah, I know.”

Enjolras is about to press matters further and ask what the hell that _means_ exactly, when Courfeyrac’s elephant footsteps can be heard coming down the stairs. He interrupts breakfast, still in his pyjamas, and looks considerably less cheerful than Enjolras is comfortable with.  

“Good morning, were your ears burning?” Combeferre chirps, and he looks thoroughly amused as Courfeyrac winces and delicately touches his temples.

“My ears are always burning. What were you saying this time? How wonderful my parties always are?” 

Jehan snorts and sits down again, a full plate of food in front of him. “Not exactly.” 

“Well it can wait until I’ve have a cup of tea. Or a strong coffee. Or a week’s worth of more sleep.” Courfeyrac groggily comes over and stops just short of the table, frowning at something that seems to bother him. “Jehan’s in my seat.” 

“You don’t have a seat.” 

“I’m certain that I do,” Courfeyrac continues, and he walks up to Jehan and sits himself down on his lap sideways, rather unceremoniously.  “And it is right here.” 

Enjolras finds himself smiling goofily as he watches; Courfeyrac and Jehan are unmistakably adorable. He and Combeferre exchange a discreet look; they probably didn’t need to be as apprehensive as they were. 

“So how was everyone’s night?” Courfeyrac asks, taking a sip of Jehan’s tea. 

“Well, we live next to a heroin addict.” Everyone’s eyes land on Enjolras. “What?” 

Combeferre raises his eyebrow. “I hope you’re not stereotyping or discriminating. That would be firmly against all of your beliefs.” 

“I’m not discriminating! And that’s not even what I meant—” 

“So what did you mean?” 

“I’m just – well that’s new, isn’t it. We haven’t done that before.” Enjolras hides behind his mug and takes a large gulp. The three pairs of eyes on him harden. 

“Very astute of you,” Jehan says solemnly. Enjolras does not kick him under the table. 

Courfeyrac reaches across to steal a slice of Enjolras’ toast, only to have his hand quickly smacked away. 

“Steal Jehan’s toast.” 

“Absolutely not – it has _marmite_ on it.” Courfeyrac gags dramatically and glares at Jehan darkly, who continues eating with a renewed passion. 

“Why do we even _have_ marmite?” Now that he knows there is marmite, Enjolras has to try very hard to keep it out of his nostrils. For moment he seriously reconsiders his and Jehan’s friendship. When Courfeyrac’s puppy eyes become too much he takes pity and passes him a slice. 

Combeferre looks up from his newspaper. “I think it was already here when we moved in. It looked old.” 

“Oh my god.” Jehan throws his toast at the table and looks at it as though it’s personally offended him. “Let’s talk about something else, toast is sort of mundane.” 

“Let’s talk about our neighbours! Feuilly!” Courfeyrac turns to Enjolras, shifting in Jehan’s lap. “Did you meet Feuilly?” 

“Well I guess—” 

“You’d _love_ Feuilly, Enjolras, you would fucking swoon over Feuilly.” 

Jehan is looking at Enjolras with a wry smile now, and he folds his hands over one another on the tabletop as he leans forwards. This can only mean terrible things.

“Let’s talk about Grantaire.”

Combeferre—the _traitor_ —abruptly shuts his paper and also stares at Enjolras as if he’s the most interesting thing in the room. “Yes, let’s.” 

“There’s nothing to talk about.” 

“You looked quite cosy outside.” 

“Whose side are you _on_?” 

Combeferre scoffs at Enjolras’ whine and shakes his head at him. He’s always the best at making Enjolras feel like a toddler. “Why would there be sides? What do you think this is?” 

Enjolras crosses his arms and stares resolutely at the wall behind Jehan and Courfeyrac. “It feels like the Spanish Inquisition…” 

“Don’t be a drama queen, it doesn’t suit you,” Jehan chides, but he just ends up frowning even harder. “Clearly there’s _something_ there; what’s the point in pretending there’s not? It’ll only end badly.” 

It’s Enjolras’ turn to scoff now. He dumps his mug and plate in the sink before announcing that he’s going back to bed. It’s a flat out lie – they all know that whilst Enjolras is as dead as a rock in the morning, he never goes to sleep again during the day, unless he actually passes out or falls asleep on top of his work. 

His room is on the third floor: a semi-modern conversion of the attic, just like every other house on the street. It’s small, but bigger than what he had at university last year, so it counts it as a success. Although that was in central London and he could walk to everything important, and now he’s stuck outside of the centre and trapped in this place. He’s had lots of time to think though, about how this situation could be beneficial. 

There’ll be no more weeks wasted studying for end of year exams, or entire nights dedicated to essays that are almost pointless, or arguing with his tutor about _not_ being a miscreant and trying to stir trouble. He can actually start to work out what he wants to do—how he can go about making a real difference, instead of sitting in a lecture theatre—and it’s going to be harder than if he’d gotten his degree before setting out to do the proper stuff, but he’s got no other options and he’s nothing if not stubborn. 

He needs to be able to think freely, and normally he would find some wonderfully quiet and airy place to do this, but he’s somewhat lacking in resources. There are two sets of windows in his room, and his desk is pushed up under the ones facing the front, his bed down by the windows looking out into the garden. The good thing about the front, is that there’s a small stretch of roof outside his bedroom, just enough for him to climb out of the window and pace a little bit, sit down away from anything else and _think_. 

That’s what he plans on doing anyway. But when Enjolras has crawled up onto his desk and slipped through the window, he finds a surprise waiting for him. 

On the low brick partition that separates his roof from the one next door, Grantaire is sitting cross-legged in a pair of flannel pyjamas and an X-Men t-shirt that’s just a tad too short. When Enjolras’ feet touch the ground, Grantaire’s head whips around to look up at him, his mouth curving into a small smile around a cigarette. 

Enjolras suddenly feels as though he shouldn’t be there, as if he’s intruding on someone else’s private place to get away. “Sorry, I didn’t realise—I’ll just—” 

Grantaire shrugs and pats the spot next to him on the wall. “It’s your roof too. I’m sure you use it for much better things than a morning smoke and a few terrible sketches.” 

Enjolras hesitates, his feet unwilling to bring him any closer to Grantaire, but he forces himself to move when Grantaire keeps looking at him so expectantly. 

“I almost thought you were going to run away,” Grantaire says quietly with a grin, but there’s a shade of worry behind it.

Enjolras laughs nervously and looks at his odd socks instead. “I didn’t want to intrude.” 

Smoke spills from Grantaire’s nostrils before he pushes the rest out from his mouth in one breath, and he rolls his cigarette between thumb and forefinger as he picks out what to say next. “Well, speaking of intrusion…” 

Grantaire looks straight at Enjolras again, his eyes the same bright blue that they were when Enjolras first saw him, and the bottomless black of last night long-gone. Grantaire is certainly something else—something that Enjolras can’t quite pinpoint or begin to discern yet—but he’s hypnotising in the worst kind of way, with his wide shining eyes and dark eyelashes, a mouth that never looks serious and is always on the wrong side of distracting. 

“Are you even listening?” Grantaire asks loudly, prodding Enjolras in the side and snapping him out of his daydream. “I said I’m sorry about being so—” he waves a hand in the air and screws up his face, “—whatever, last night. I didn’t mean to accost you or freak you out or whatever it is you’re probably thinking. I’m not normally like that.” 

Enjolras seems to have forgotten how words even work anymore, because he can barely do anything but nod and say _it’s fine_. There are questions that he’d been going over in his mind last night, lying awake in bed, but under Grantaire’s gaze they all dissipate and slip away from him. 

“I get why I called you Apollo though,” Grantaire muses, and he wraps one of Enjolras’ blonde curls around his finger and looks at him at though he’s made of gold. 

“Don’t,” Enjolras says firmly, even though he feels like his blood has been set on fire, even though he wants to bottle the expression on Grantaire’s face. 

“Why?” 

“He’s a spoilt brat, and when he doesn’t get what he wants he either punishes someone or mopes and turns them into a tree.” Grantaire recoils with a look of horror, before narrowing his eyes. 

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” Grantaire takes another drag from his cigarette and gives Enjolras the stink-eye one last time. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what the fuck are you doing living down here? If you were looking for the new up and coming cool area, you are definitely in the wrong part of East London.”

“What makes you think I care about what’s cool?” Enjolras asks, and he doesn’t understand why that makes Grantaire break into a fit of laughter. 

“Oh Christ, I’m sorry,” Grantaire says, scratching at the underside of his chin. “It’s just that you scream private school and university paid for by Mummy and Daddy—no, don’t look at me like that, okay—I mean there’s a reason why I know that.” 

Enjolras continues scowling though, and he feels as though he’s been doing so much of that today already. “Are you trying to insult me?” 

Grantaire’s smile widens even more, showing his teeth as he bites on his bottom lip absently. “No, of course not! Well, I don’t think so anyway. But I’m right, aren’t I?” 

“Almost,” Enjolras says begrudgingly. “I was told not to come back to uni for my second year. My parents asked me to come home, let them sort everything out, but I decided to pack up and do it on my own. We all did. Me, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac.” 

Grantaire raises his eyebrows and looks impressed. “What did you do? Blackmail your professors? Terrorise your tutor?” Enjolras just rolls his eyes, but Grantaire folds his arms over his chest and waits for an answer. 

“We organised a protest under the political activism society, and the other activism societies ended up linking up with us and joining. It was big and got rowdy – too many people were there and they started to get really angry, and once people started to get trampled the police had to be called in. Then everyone got _angrier_ , and a few buildings—including uni property—got smashed up and we got blamed for dragging the university’s name through dirt.” Enjolras can’t decide whether the real thing was better or worse than what he’s describing, but he does know he’s left a lot of details out. 

They probably wouldn’t have been expelled for that protest alone. That was just the last straw—the worst of many others—and it was enough of a scandal to topple over their pile of past disruptions to the ‘proper functioning of the university’. Enjolras curls one hand into a tight fist at his side; he’s still so fucking _angry_. They all know they didn’t deserve what happened, but they don’t talk about it. Talking about it only makes them want to rip the university apart until it’s rubble on the ground, and it’s much more efficient to channel that frustration into other issues that they can move forward. 

Enjolras has almost forgotten that Grantaire is there, until he reaches out and touches his wrist cautiously. 

“I think I heard about that protest a while back. It was on the news for a bit, and in the papers too. I’d say I’m sorry but it’s pointless, isn’t it? We both know it’s fucking ridiculous.” Grantaire does look genuinely sorry though, and Enjolras wants to know why that pulls on his heartstrings so much, why it makes him soften and want to invite Grantaire inside for a proper chat with the others.  

Enjolras looks down, seeing Grantaire’s finger pressed against his wrist gently. Grantaire must notice him watching because he moves to pull away, mumbling an apology under his breath, but Enjolras catches his hand as he does so. He does it completely on impulse, having felt entirely unlike himself when the writing fell into his line of sight. 

“What’s this?” Enjolras asks, turning Grantaire’s wrist over in his hand to read the words printed on skin that’s too translucent against the green and purple of his veins. 

“What does it look like, genius?” Grantaire says sarcastically, trying to yank his arm back, but Enjolras keeps a firm hold and guesses that Grantaire isn’t trying all that hard. “It’s a tattoo—stick and poke—Feuilly did it.” 

Enjolras reads it again, _astra per aspera_ , and tries to conjure up those four years of Latin classes at school. “What does it mean?” He asks, becoming sheepishly aware of what he’s doing, and he drops Grantaire’s hand. 

Grantaire smiles to himself and touches the phrase itself, handwritten in capital letters. “To the stars through difficulty.” He stubs his cigarette out in an ashtray by his feet and stands up. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime,” Grantaire says, his brief moment of insecurity replaced by charm and cat-smiles again. Enjolras doesn’t even have time to ask what that means—what _sometime_ means—before Grantaire is climbing back through his own window and disappearing.    

 

\---- 

 

Life goes on. 

September rolls around and the academic year means nothing to Enjolras anymore, except for the rest of their friends eventually going back to class and being busy more often. The three of them scrounge around doing odd jobs, juggling a couple at a time for a while until better opportunities show up. In the past two months, Enjolras has realised that he makes a terrible waiter, an even worse sales assistant, and a _horrible_ barista. He really does consider giving his parents a call, asking for help just to get _one_ decent job as a kick-starter, but he hangs up as soon as he hears his father’s gruff voice.

He manages to get a volunteering place at Amnesty, and there’s potentially something more permanent in the works if he does a good job (thanks to a glowing reference his old European Politics professor wrote up for him). He gets a job in one of the museums, and it’s enough to pay his share of the rent and bills and shopping. He still has to keep dipping into his savings—which is fine, because there’s far too much in there anyway, and there’ll be even more once he’s twenty-one—but he’s adapting and unlearning the more pricey habits he’d picked up over the years. 

They also spend a lot more time with Grantaire, Bahorel, and Feuilly. When August was skidding to end, they had a few barbecues on the last summer days that _really_ felt like summer. Enjolras had been in the garden with Courfeyrac when Grantaire’s head appeared over the top of the fence (courtesy of a piggyback from Feuilly) to invite them round for booze and burnt sausages. Jehan is always over there too—doing god knows what in that little artsy little trio of him, Grantaire, and Feuilly—and their groups very quickly morph into one big mess of friends. 

Enjolras had thought that maybe they’d see less of Grantaire, but he’s around all the time, and there’s not exactly anything wrong with that. Grantaire shows them the friendliest pubs to get a cheap pint, the cafes and coffee shops that are fair trade and don’t charge a fortune, and hidden markets that give the best bargains. Grantaire helps them in a lot of ways, but at the same time he’s becoming something of a thorn in Enjolras’ side. His favourite hobby seems to be getting Enjolras all riled up and frustrated by any means possible – usually by contradicting _anything_ Enjolras has to say. 

The weirdest part is that this all feels so _normal_. As if they’ve been doing this for years and have always been a group of nine or ten. Even Eponine gives up on trailing after Marius so loyally to come out with them all, and suddenly Enjolras can’t imagine how they all got by last year. They even have a local pub that they’re regulars at  (although they always have to stay a little inconspicuous when they’re in there; it’s full of volatile red-faced men and catty women ready to rip them apart). 

One day when they’re all together they show up there, and the windows are boarded up and the place has shut down in their week or two of absence. This, it turns out, does them a world of good in the long run. It’s Feuilly that saves them; they’re hovering outside this shut-down pub and arguing over where to go instead, with Grantaire and Bahorel lamenting over the joy of finding cheap booze and cheaper dates at the end of their street. 

“There’s a nice place a few streets away, it’s tucked away down a backstreet,” Feuilly says, grinding everyone else’s conversations to a halt. “I found it last week when I was looking for Bahorel asleep in an alley.” 

Bahorel coughs into his fist, but he can’t hold back a grin and starts laughing anyway. “It was barely a nap—” 

Feuilly’s eyes narrow and clock in on him. “Don’t you dare, I’m still pissed off at you. It was four in the morning on a Tuesday!”

Courfeyrac steps between them and slings an arm around Bahorel and Feuilly, tutting as he edges them into a slow walk. “Now children, let’s not fight. There’s plenty of time for that after you’ve had a drink. Come on Feuilly, lead the way!” 

They end up at a picturesque little pub-come-café, Le Musain, and considering how out of the way it is, squashed behind and between too many houses, it’s unsurprising how little people are inside. Jehan looks positively smitten with it already though, especially once he gets through the door and sees the décor. The place is bigger than it looks from the outside—even though there are enough tables and chairs squashed in to make it look crowded—and there’s more seating on a lower level through the back and on the floor above. 

“It’s possible that I’m imagining this place. Somebody please pinch me,” Jehan gushes, and when Enjolras obliges him he gets a punch that leaves him arm sore for the rest of the night. 

Grantaire abandons his gossiping with Joly to squeeze past Enjolras and get a better look around, eyes lighting up at the old chandeliers and candles inside wine bottles on the tables. “Hold me, Jehan, this is just too much!” 

They all shuffle into the back, where the tables are bigger and surrounded by a selection of mismatch armchairs and stools. It’s kitsch heaven— _Jehan’s_ heaven—with the jukebox in one corner and an old piano in another, neon lighting hearts on the wall next to prints of Toulouse Lautrec and René Margritte. They have to push 3 tables together, and even then it’s a tight squeeze, but it’s a hundred times better than their last pub. 

“I’ll get the drinks – I spy a beautiful barmaid,” Bossuet says, wiggling his eyebrows at the group as they all shout drinks orders at him. 

“I saw her _first_!” Joly nags, getting up to poke Bossuet repeatedly at anywhere he can get to.  “And you cannot carry all those drinks, do you even remember what happened last time you tried?” 

Grantaire slings his legs over the arm of his chair and crosses them casually. “Why don’t you both go? It’s not like she’ll be betrothed to whoever orders the first pint.” 

“If she’s that pretty maybe I should just go—” 

“Shut up, Courfeyrac,” Joly groans, but there had been a brief flash of horror on his face. 

“You could always share,” Grantaire smirks, and Enjolras assumes he’s not being serious, but Joly and Bossuet take a long look at each other and go off to the bar mumbling. 

Jehan sinks further into little sofa he’s sharing with Feuilly and tosses his backpack on the ground, wincing when it lands with a heavy thunk and a pile of books come tumbling out. 

“Jesus, how much do you have to read?” Bahorel says, looking at Jehan as though he’s just lost an arm. 

Jehan shrugs and looks at his books as though each one is a genuine gift. “I do comparative literature, it’s a little more than skim-reading the SparkNotes.” 

“Yeah, Bahorel knows _all_ about that,” Feuilly scoffs, bending to help Jehan get his things in order again. He holds out a book on Polish literature and Enjolras definitely sees his eyes go cartoon-style dreamy. “Can I borrow this?” 

Joly and Bossuet come back with all the drinks on a tray each, sporting similarly wistful looks. They sit down in a daze and say nothing, taking sips of their drinks at the same time, as if this barmaid has sent them back in a lovesick stupor. 

Enjolras decides to intervene, and turns back to Feuilly. “What did you do after school?” 

Feuilly stretches his long legs out underneath the table and cracks his knuckles one by one, making Jehan wrinkle his nose and cringe next to him. “After high school I didn’t bother with sixth form, just went straight into working wherever I could. My parents weren’t around so I had to take care of myself mostly.” 

“Wow.” Courfeyrac prods Enjolras but he’s still staring at Feuilly in what may or may not be amazement. 

“Yeah, I uh, met a guy once who taught me how to make simple fans. So I just started making my own and selling them at markets, and it just took off I guess? I still work part-time at the café for when sales aren’t great at the traders’ markets or when I don’t get enough commissions for more complicated stuff. And it pays for more supplies for me to try new kinds of art and décor out.” 

Courfeyrac kicks him this time, saying, “You okay there, Enjolras? You’re looking a little… fixated.” 

“I’m just – that’s brilliant. Feuilly, you’re the perfect example of what you can do without higher education. I mean so many more people used to do that—it sounds only risky now—and that’s just how people went into work. It’s only recently that society has projected the idea that young people have to go to university to succeed in anything, and now there’s a reduced value in those who don’t have that opportunity, even though they’re still vital to a functioning society.” 

Grantaire makes a snide comment that Enjolras doesn’t quite hear, but he does see him sigh exasperatedly. 

“What?” 

“You talk as though you expect something different,” Grantaire says, looking practically amused. 

Enjolras eyes him carefully. “Go on.” 

“Well it’s the privileged elite who dictate what’s important in society, and it suits them to perpetrate that view. _Obviously_ , after tripling the cost of uni fees, they’re going to want everybody to go to university so that they can get the cash in their pockets. They’re not going to tell you that none of it matters because nobody’s getting jobs _anyway_.” 

Enjolras feels a debate coming on, and with Grantaire it’s never pretty. He’s ready to do it though, but he can feel Combeferre’s eyes burning into the back of his head, warning him sternly. 

He goes on anyway, and nobody is surprised in the slightest. 

“Well doesn’t that bother you? Doesn’t that make you want to fight to change the views that people accept as normal?” 

Grantaire barks out a laugh, and gives Enjolras a look of pure pity. “You should know better than anyone that student protests do nothing but make young people look more like the _violent hooligans_ that we’re made out to be. Remember the 2010 protests? Most of the demonstrations were completely peaceful, but the stories that made the news were the ones where students were vandalising property and tossing fire extinguishers off high-rise buildings, because it made us look _unreasonable_.” 

“So you think we should just lie down and take it?” Enjolras frowns, trying to calm his rising pulse that yearns for a chance to prove how fundamentally _wrong_ Grantaire is. 

“I’m saying I don’t see the point in breaking my back over things I can’t change. _C’est la vie_.” Grantaire flashes one of those infuriating smiles at Enjolras before swanning off outside with Bahorel for a cigarette. 

Enjolras is hardly listening when Courfeyrac suddenly slams his pint down on the table, beer sloshing up over the sides with the impact. Everyone stops what they’re doing to watch him rise slowly from his burgundy velvet armchair, like a ridiculous boy-king drunk on too much power. 

“I’ve just had a stroke of genius.” 

“Try not to hurt yourself,” Combeferre says with a snort, but Courfeyrac goes on as if he hasn’t heard him. 

“We should do this properly. Have meetings—here, regularly—and form a group to talk politics and do things.”

Enjolras is about to make a sardonic comment about Courfeyrac’s unparalleled eloquence, when Jehan beats him to it and cautiously says, “The last time we did that you were expelled from university and I got my hair ripped out by a policeman. Are you sure that’s a good idea?” 

Courfeyrac looks a little downtrodden, but not altogether undeterred. 

Joly leans forwards in his seat, tapping his chin in thought. “No, wait, I actually think that’s a good idea. I mean we can’t just give up, can we? And this way we won’t be tied to the university with whatever we do.” 

That’s when they all look to Enjolras expectantly, waiting for his input which has been strangely absent from the conversation. Combeferre already knows though; his small smile says it all. 

“ _Of course_ I’m in,” Enjolras says, laughing when they all look relieved. “And it’s not like I have anything to lose anymore, right?” Courfeyrac claps him on the back and grins at him, and Enjolras feels like maybe his life is finally steadying out again. 

 

\----

  

It takes no less than three days for Enjolras to quickly retract that thought – his life is anything but steadying out. It’s just getting more and more confusing and bumpy, winding around in complicated patterns that Enjolras has never had to consider or try to follow before. 

He’s at the Musain for an after-work drink with Courfeyrac and Combeferre; in the hopes of organising something firm about these meetings and the group they’re about to create. And they’d stuck to that plan for as long as it took Musichetta—the very pretty barmaid from the other night, who as it happens, is also incredibly persuasive and clever—to convince them beers would help their ideas flow. 

Between volunteering and work, Enjolras hadn’t had enough time for breakfast _or_ lunch today, and has instead been functioning off a few stale biscuits from the break room, so that one pint of beer hits him entirely too hard. He’s not sure how or why they started talking about Grantaire, but he does know that he has a lot to say about him now they’re there. 

“He’s just so _irritating_ ,” Enjolras whines, slouching forwards on his stool until he’s almost got his head resting in his arms on the bar. 

Musichetta is drying glasses on the other side of the bar and her laugh carries through the whole front section of the Musain. “I’m pretty sure you were just gushing about how intelligent he is _five minutes ago_.” 

Courfeyrac groans and gives Enjolras a disparaging look, and if Enjolras wasn’t so preoccupied being annoyed he might feel guilty about driving his best friend to drink. 

“Take no notice of him – he is the world’s biggest lightweight. He probably has no idea what he’s saying or the pain he’s inflicting on every other living soul.” 

Enjolras resents that—he is merely tipsy—and he tells Courfeyrac as much. Then he goes back to his rant. “It’s just that Grantaire is very clever—yes, I’ll admit that—but he wastes it all! He’s so well read—in _everything_ —but all he ever does is use it to undermine me. And I don’t like that. It’s really, _really_ irritating when I’m trying to make a clever speech.” 

Combeferre is snickering quietly on his other side, and Musichetta has almost shoved her fist into her mouth to stay quiet, but Courfeyrac is less than impressed when he swivels around on his stool and glares at Enjolras. 

“Oh my god just _stop_ , I’m begging you. Grantaire is fucking pulling your pigtails!” 

Enjolras looks up, and he feels the exhaustion of the past few sleepless nights crashing down on him. “What?” 

“It’s true, I’m surprised even you haven’t realised that yet,” Combeferre says. Only that’s not what Enjolras meant – he really has no idea what they’re talking about. 

“What does that even—” 

“Enjolras, do you _like_ Grantaire?” Courfeyrac asks, looking ever so slightly manic. 

Again, Enjolras is vaguely confused, as if there’s a deeper meaning he is unaware of in this entire conversation. If he hadn’t had that drink he wouldn’t feel as lightheaded and airy as he does now, and he might be able to work out what’s making Courfeyrac come close to popping a vein. 

“Well obviously when he’s not being a nuisance for no reason, and he is quite funny and—” 

Courfeyrac shakes his head and cuts Enjolras off again, his left eye honest to god twitching. “No. Do you _like_ -like Grantaire?” 

Enjolras’ mouth falls open but he doesn’t have anything to say, and he just sits there like a goldfish. He looks to Combeferre for assistance, but even he’s waiting patiently for an answer, eyebrows raised and expression neutral. 

The thing is, it’s simple. All he has to do is answer the question and say that he doesn’t feel that way – which he _doesn’t_. Grantaire is cynical for the sake of it and loves nothing more than playing devil’s advocate just to wind Enjolras up. He smokes too much and he drinks even more, and always avoids telling Enjolras anything about himself. He’s always teasing and never serious, but nobody else seems to get annoyed by it at all. 

So he should really just say that he doesn’t like Grantaire like that, and he’s about to when he starts thinking about the way Grantaire makes everyone laugh and how he gave Jehan the money to get a cab home last week, and how nice he’d been on the roof the morning after the party. 

That’s how Enjolras ends up blurting out, “ _I don’t like Grantaire!”_ loud enough for a few people to turn around and look at him. He really didn’t mean for that to happen, but there were too many thoughts in his own head and he was mostly trying to shout it at himself. 

“Oh bloody hell,” Musichetta mutters, but she looking straight over Combeferre’s shoulder with a look of a frantic worry. Enjolras turns around, and his stomach has never dropped so quickly in his life. 

Grantaire is standing just inside the doorway of the Musain, looking like a horrible cross between a deer in headlights and a kicked puppy. Feuilly is just behind him, but Enjolras can’t look past Grantaire’s blank face, drained of colour and now firmly behind an imaginary brick wall. 

Enjolras wants to call out to Grantaire, explain to him that it was definitely not what it sounded like, but under Grantaire’s empty stare he can’t get himself to do anything at all. So he just sits there like an inanimate asshole, while Grantaire spins around on his heel and shoves past Feuilly straight back out the door. 


	3. it's not just hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i'm kind of trying to get these chapters to you every week and hoping that giving myself deadlines will stop me from forgetting about this? (ok i could never, this fic occupies my every waking hour practically)  
> ♡ ode to [anna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ithurtstobecome) for being a queen ♡

If Enjolras had thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse, he is very wrong indeed. 

As with most things now, it happens at the Musain on what should be an uneventful afternoon. It’s a Sunday, and by all accounts Sundays are meant to be safe days where nothing embarrassingly dramatic happens, but apparently the world is working against Enjolras.

 

"I'm thinking of dyeing my hair green," Grantaire says suddenly. He's not had enough to drink for it to be a lighthearted interruption to the meeting. He's chewing on the inside of his cheek and wrapping a dark curl around his finger – he’s being serious. 

Jehan is already out of his seat and excitedly dodging chairs to leap over to Grantaire, while Feuilly and Bahorel just exchange a look and roll their eyes. By the time Jehan is perched behind Grantaire on the back of his chair, pulling at clumps of his curls and whispering into his ear, Enjolras feels something rising up inside him, something stifling and forceful. 

"I might chop the back and sides off too – like Courf’s," Grantaire muses, and across from him Courfeyrac preens dramatically. 

"No—" Enjolras says abruptly, unable to stop that one simple word that has been climbing up his throat the entire time, until it bursts out of him. "Don't." 

He's evoked a silence around him, the whole group halting their mutterings to turn and look at him quizzically. 

"What?" Grantaire asks, staring at Enjolras as though he's misheard him and desperately needs some clarification. There are too many reactions to his two words to keep track of, but Enjolras doesn't miss the way Jehan raises an eyebrow at him before hiding his smile in Grantaire's hair. 

Enjolras feels his cheeks heat up, wishes he could rewind to a couple of minutes before and avoid this situation all together. He doesn't understand; all he did was offer his opinion—albeit rather bluntly—but it's not like he's forbidden from doing so, it's _expected_. He tells himself that it's not him; _they're_ the ones who are acting weird – forcing the atmosphere into becoming awkward and uncomfortable. What's worse is that they're expectant of _something_ – and Enjolras can't work out what. 

"Um," he starts, clearing his throat as he prays that his ears aren't as red as they are hot. "I just think that—" he pauses, searching for the right words—for any words at all. 

"Yeah?" Grantaire presses, leaning forwards in his chair now. 

"It's really—I mean, it's fine as it is. You don't need to—" Enjolras looks around, fumbling over his words in a way that hasn't happened in years, his stomach churning unpleasantly and his fingers tingling. 

Courfeyrac has been watching like a hawk: mug poised in front of his mouth as his eyes flicker between Enjolras and Grantaire. " _Alright_ then…" he cuts in, saving Enjolras from becoming even more flustered. He knows it too, judging by the smug grin on his face, lips pressed firmly together to hold in laughter. "We should get back to business, right Combeferre?" 

Enjolras’ brain must have dissolved some time ago, because he excuses himself and scurries straight out of the Musain and ignores all of the peculiar looks that his friends are sending his way. 

 

\----

  

It takes him a while to find the note. 

As soon as he steps foot inside his bedroom, Enjolras toes his shoes off and flops down face-first into bed. He tries desperately to pretend that this afternoon didn’t happen, but it’s as though he’s intent on torturing himself because the scene of him stuttering and _blushing_ is still replaying on a loop in his head. 

Enjolras groans in the pillow, praying for the ground to just swallow him whole and never let him see the light of day again. He honestly doesn’t know what happened – what came over him to prompt that outburst in the Musain. Grantaire is an adult after all—all sense of responsibility aside—and he can do what he likes with his hair. Besides, _it’s just hair._

So maybe Enjolras likes the way Grantaire’s dark hair falls into his eyes, almost inky against the pallor of his skin. That doesn’t _mean_ anything. In fact, Enjolras is probably doing him a favour, because green hair would only serve to make Grantaire look even more sickly than usual. And the haircut just wouldn’t suit him, especially since Grantaire is always glaring at him from under that mop of hair when their arguments get too personal. Enjolras has definitely _not_ thought about dragging his hands through those curls or combing his fingers through them like Jehan often does. 

He _hasn’t_. 

He hauls himself out of bed and moves over to the desk, hoping to clear his mind in a way that his spontaneous stroll did not. He’d needed a distraction to make him forget all about that little scene, and his mother had always told him that fresh air did wonders. He tries reading one of Bossuet’s textbooks, but his mind refuses to cooperate as he reads the same paragraph at least fifteen times, the shell-shocked expression on Grantaire’s face burned into every one of his neurons. 

He looks up towards the ceiling, about to breathe a sigh of exasperation, when he sees it. A torn-off scrap of sketchbook paper stuck to the top of the window with a strip of masking tape. Sitting down he can’t make out the scrawled writing, but there’s no mistaking the large ‘R’ at the bottom. Enjolras gets to his feet and squints at the messy handwriting on the other side of the glass. 

_If you like my hair then you can just say so. Or do I really piss you off that much???_

-       _R_

A wave of guilt settles in Enjolras’ stomach as the note stares down at him. He realises how brash and even rude he must have come off today—especially leaving like that—and he stands there for five minutes trying to decide what to do next. He settles for sending a quick text to Grantaire, asking him to come out for a moment. 

By the time Enjolras actually gets out the window, Grantaire is already perched on the partition and facing away from him with a cigarette in hand and an ashtray in his lap. 

“Hey,” Enjolras calls out when Grantaire makes no move to acknowledge him. 

“Hi.” 

There’s a hint of suspicion to Grantaire’s voice as he casts a glance back at Enjolras. His shoulders draw in as he inhales a long drag of smoke, going back to staring down the row of other people’s roofs. 

Enjolras closes the window most of the way to keep the heat in his room before going to sit by Grantaire on the partition, keeping his legs on his own side so that they’re facing opposite directions. He’d ripped the note off the window as he came out, and the thick paper digs into his clenched fist as smoke drifts past him. 

“I don’t dislike you,” Enjolras sighs, shoving his hands into his coat pocket. 

Grantaire’s laugh is bitter and cuts through the air sharply. “Funny that, because I remember you explicitly saying you did.” 

Enjolras barely resists the urge to groan and roll his eyes. Of _course_ he would bring that up. “Don’t twist my words like that. My comment was entirely out of context to you.” 

“Sounded pretty self-explanatory to me.” 

Enjolras yanks a hand out of his pocket to run it through his hair, trying to keep his temper down and curb his frustration. “Actually, Courfeyrac was implying that I—” he stops speaking and lets his jaw go tight as annoyance bubbles up inside of him and latches onto his stubbornness. “I don’t need to explain myself to you,” Enjolras spits, and it comes out much more vicious than he’d intended but Grantaire is already swinging a leg over to straddle the partition and glare at Enjolras. 

“Oh no, please, go on. I’d _love_ to hear this,” Grantaire snarls, stubbing out his cigarette angrily and eyes narrowed as he glowers at Enjolras. 

Enjolras kicks his leg over the partition and mirrors Grantaire’s position, glaring back at him with an equal fire as his blood runs hot and leaves every one of his muscles thrumming with anger. The edges of Grantaire’s note cut into his palm as his fists tighten even further, and Grantaire’s scowl gives way to something _infuriatingly_ amused. 

“If you must know,” Enjolras says through gritted teeth, “Courfeyrac was being utterly ridiculous and was under the impression that I, quote, _like_ -like you.” 

Grantaire’s eyes go dark and he is suddenly very serious again, and Enjolras doesn’t know what he’s said to hit a nerve or _why_ , but a part of him relishes it – being able to inflict the same crippling mess of emotions and frustration that Grantaire does to him.

“The thought of which must be revolting—” 

“I was correcting him!” 

“And the disdain in your voice could be heard from the other side of the Musain!”

Enjolras feels his cheeks flush; he remembers how loudly he’d exclaimed it and the shock on Grantaire’s face as he’d frozen in place a few feet away from the bar. He _knows_ it was uncouth on his part, but Grantaire is being unreasonable now and Enjolras is nothing if not obstinate. 

“Why are you so fixated on the fact that I don’t have any romantic feelings towards you? Why does this bother you so much?” 

Grantaire’s mouth, which has been set in a thin line for some time now, twitches subtly. He doesn’t say anything straight away, but he looks down into the ashtray and his grip on it tightens, his knuckles turning white. 

He looks up at Enjolras again, eyes shining an icy blue against dull white of his skin. “Why are you such a conceited twat?” 

( _And you’re just a junkie, why would I care what you think_ )

A flash of hurt across Grantaire’s face alerts Enjolras that he has actually said that out loud. It’s quickly replaced by a well-practiced smile, but he can’t make it reach his eyes like he usually does. 

“Right, okay. This has been lovely, Enjolras. Let’s do it again sometime.” Grantaire stands up and refuses to meet his eye, instead going straight for his own window and disappearing back into his bedroom.

  

Enjolras definitely feels like shit now. 

He thinks about enlisting Combeferre’s help but he’s still not home yet, so he knocks on Courfeyrac’s door instead. It’s Jehan’s voice that tells him to come in though, so Enjolras enters with trepidation and an arm covering his eyes.

“I really hope you have clothes on.” 

“Oh please,” Jehan snorts, and something solid hits Enjolras on the head. “We’re watching Brideshead Revisited.” 

Enjolras uncovers his eyes and sees the DVD case at his feet from where it had bludgeoned him. Courfeyrac and Jehan are both lying in bed on their fronts with their legs swinging in the air behind them. Enjolras lingers by the door before moving to sit in Courfeyrac’s desk chair. 

“Did you want something, or are you just here to sulk?” 

“Courf, can’t you see that he’s completely and utterly lovesick? We can’t be mean to him when he’s like this.”

“I am not lovesick,” Enjolras says stubbornly, and he folds his arms for emphasis but it looks more like a temper tantrum. “But I do need some advice.” 

“About Grantaire?” 

“ _Obviously_ about Grantaire, who else would I need advice about? Other people make sense!” 

Courfeyrac and Jehan exchange a secretive look before going serious again, and Jehan flips the laptop shut. “What’s going on?” Jehan sighs, and Enjolras hesitates before answering. 

“I may have made an…unnecessary comment.” Enjolras may also have misjudged how good an idea this is – just saying it out loud makes shame fester in his gut. “About his drug problem.” 

They both sit up now, and Enjolras worries about the sombre atmosphere that has taken over the room.  

“What did you say?” Jehan asks carefully, and Enjolras knows he’s going to get a mouthful once he tells him. 

“That I don’t value his opinion because he’s an addict.”

Jehan narrows his eyes and throws a book from the bedside table at Enjolras, hitting him square in the chest and almost winding him. “Jesus Christ, you can be a real dick sometimes. Why would you _say_ that?”

“We were having an argument – it just slipped out!” 

“That boy _worships_ you— _god knows why_ —and he already thinks that you hate him. Do you even know how he must feel right now?” 

“Well I know I feel pretty shitty,” Enjolras mumbles, rubbing at his chest. 

“Do you want me to hit you again?” 

Enjolras shakes his head and glowers at Courfeyrac for not doing anything, but he only stares back at him twice as hard. 

“If you had bothered to spend some extra time with Grantaire, instead of getting at each other’s throats every given moment, you would know that Grantaire thinks very little of himself,” Jehan chides, making Enjolras feels like a child. 

“It’s sort of hard to ignore. Besides, I came here for you to help me _fix_ this; I really don’t need a lecture right now. I promise you can give me one later.” 

Jehan’s expression goes soft again, and he looks at Enjolras sadly. “I know you didn’t mean it but Grantaire thinks you did, and he won’t believe you if you take it back. You have to have to understand that he doesn’t like himself, and sometimes he hates himself entirely, and hearing someone like you echo those thoughts is going to hurt.” 

Enjolras spins around in the chair and considers exiling himself to Siberia until this whole thing dies down. “So how am I supposed to apologise?”

“Be persistent,” Courfeyrac says. “You’re very good at it.” 

 

\----

  

Enjolras slinks back to his room feeling even guiltier, which until now he hadn’t even thought possible. He needs a distraction—anything that doesn’t remind him of Grantaire—which apparently leaves very little since anything politics or literature related is out of the question. There’s always work, and he casts a pitiful glance at the folder he brought back on Friday, full of options for new tours. 

He puts headphones on as soon as he hears voices on the other side of the window, but occasionally he still hears Grantaire’s muffled voice and a girl’s laughter. He is very meticulous in not looking up from his desk and the papers spread across it. It almost works. 

He has no idea how long Eponine has been knocking on his window, but when it becomes loud enough to hear over his music Enjolras looks up and sees her crouching on the other side of the glass. He considers shutting the curtains and barricading himself downstairs, but Eponine knows people who could kill him without leaving a trace and he doesn’t fancy risking it. 

As soon as he pushes the window up, Eponine is poking her head inside and almost crawling onto the desk, a glass of red wine in one hand and the other pointing an accusing finger at Enjolras. 

“You. Get outside now have a drink with us.” 

Enjolras runs a hand through his hair and looks away. “I’ll pass. I’m working tomorrow and I should get this done tonight.” 

Eponine scoffs and slams a foot clad in heavy brown boots down on the desk, sending a few of his papers fluttering to the floor. “Oh please, even you’re not that much of an old fart. Besides, don’t you think you owe _someone_ a real apology?” 

“I just don’t think it’s a good—”

“Enjolras, _I’m_ the one he’s supposed to be getting drunk and comforting – because _I’m_ still in love with a bumbling idiot who has a perfect girlfriend. Except that’s not happening because he’s too busy moping over you. Now would you strap your balls on and get your skinny little arse outside?”

Her eyes are boring into him with the sharpness of daggers and he doesn’t dare argue – especially when he can’t be sure that those boots aren’t steel-capped.

“ _Fine_.”

When he gets outside he braces himself for a dark glare from Grantaire like he’d seen that afternoon, but he falters when he sees almost the opposite. Grantaire is sitting in the far corner of his share of roof with a duvet pulled around him as he clutches a full glass of red wine, and he almost looks _shy_. 

The air is muggy with lingering smoke and it reeks of weed, which is easily explained by the large glass bong on one side of Grantaire. It’s dark out, the stars invisible under the cloak of city air pollution, but the moon is almost full and sheds some light over them. 

Grantaire looks at Enjolras for a second, with glazed eyes and a straight mouth that holds none of its usual secrets, before he looks away and drains his glass in one long gulp. He stares at the ground as he grimaces and wipes the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand, and he makes no sign of even acknowledging Enjolras again. 

Eponine hovers next to Enjolras, who hasn’t yet made it past the partition between his and Grantaire’s roofs, before she pushes him forward by the shoulders and backs away, saying, “I’ll go get another glass for Enjolras then.” 

Enjolras waits for Eponine to be fully out of sight before he tentatively begins speaking, but he dares not move any closer to Grantaire. “Look about today… I should apologise.” 

“Whatever, it’s done. So let’s just forget it.” 

“What I said though – it wasn’t okay, and you know I don’t think that.” 

“Enjolras, just stop – alright? It’s nothing I haven’t told myself; I’m not falling apart over it.”  

Eponine chooses that moment to reappear again, climbing out of Grantaire’s window with a glass in one hand and a new bottle of wine in the other. “That last part was a lie by the way, in case you were wondering,” she says in Enjolras’ ear. 

She’s got Grantaire’s velvet jacket hanging over her shoulders and there’s a yellowing bruise around her neck that isn’t quite hidden by her shirt collar. Enjolras knows not to ask, especially when he already knows the answer. 

Eponine yanks Enjolras over the partition and sits him down opposite Grantaire, refilling each of their glasses before taking her own seat against the front wall. She hugs the jacket tighter around herself and taps on her glass with the end of a corkscrew. 

“A toast,” she says, clearing her throat theatrically. “You two are both idiots, who clearly care very much about what the other thinks of you, but refuse to admit it. So here’s to hoping you get it together and stop brooding, and to both of you for making me look _way_ less pathetic.” 

She holds her glass in the air and looks expectantly from Grantaire to Enjolras until they both clink their glasses together and quietly mumble ‘cheers’. 

“Okay, now can we get back to comforting me? My life is a _joke_ – do you know that both Marius and Cosette come to me as their personal relationship confident? Do you even understand how much of a kick in the face that is?” 

Eponine takes a long sip of wine before putting her head in her hands and groaning. Enjolras tries patting her on the shoulder but she just looks at him as if he’s an idiot. Grantaire slides the bong over to her and offers to light her hit. 

Enjolras is very unsure of how this whole empathy thing is supposed to work with people like Eponine and Grantaire. 

Someone from the street below calls out when they hear the loud bubbling of the bong, and after a too long hit Eponine is coughing hard enough to hack a lung up. She manages to wash it down with more wine and Grantaire barely supresses a laugh. 

“Better than therapy,” he says slyly, and Enjolras can only roll his eyes. 

“I mean what does Marius have that hundreds of other guys don’t, right?” She slips her arms through the sleeves of Grantaire’s jacket and leans back against the wall. “Enjolras, you were at uni with him. Please tell me that Marius is a virgin – or at least a horrible kisser.” 

“Maybe you should ask Courfeyrac these questions, he’s the one who he shared a hall with—” 

“Do you think Courf has fucked Marius?” Grantaire asks with a snigger as he wiggles his eyebrows at Eponine.

“Marius is still a virgin, alright!” Enjolras practically squeaks, and he can feel his cheeks warming up just from the _thought_ of Courfeyrac and Marius. 

“Ugh, okay. That’ll hold me over for now,” Eponine says dismissively, but she can’t quite wipe the yearning off her face. 

Enjolras has something nagging at the back of his mind and it’s steadily working its way forwards, and self-preservation tells him not to say anything, but he’s never paid much attention to that particular sense anyway. 

“What’s so bad about virgins anyway…” He means to sound defiant about it, but it comes out as more of a grumble than anything. 

Eponine pats his knee and gives him a sympathetic smile that he does _not_ appreciate. “Oh sweetie, I forgot you’re still a gleaming beacon of purity.” 

Grantaire chokes and wine comes out of his nose, and Enjolras is very thankful for the darkness because his face has probably reached an alarming shade of crimson by now. He empties his glass in an attempt to wash away at least some of his embarrassment. 

“You’re a virgin?” Grantaire asks once he’s composed himself again. 

“Can we stop talking about this?” 

Miraculously, they do. They shift the conversation back to Eponine again, and Enjolras gathers that when she said the guys next door were her friends, she was playing it down. Grantaire asks a lot of questions about where she’s working and if they’re treating her okay or giving her too many hours. When she says her dad has been giving her trouble again, Eponine has to bribe Grantaire into keeping it a secret from Bahorel, just so Mr Thénardier doesn’t get a visit from the man himself.

The same kind of wariness comes up again with the mention of Montparnasse. She’d been checking a new text and Grantaire had taken one look at the expression on her face to know who it was, and he wasn’t thrilled.

“Be careful,” Grantaire pleads, and Eponine glares at him.

“You know that Montparnasse does what he has to – he tries to keep me out of all that.” 

There’s no point in arguing; Eponine is already combing through her choppy fringe with her fingers and shrugging out of Grantaire’s jacket. Enjolras doesn’t know an awful lot about Montparnasse, but he’s seen him with Eponine enough times and it’s hard to ignore all the rumours that he’s a criminal and no better than her parents. But Eponine isn’t stupid and she looks after herself so he’s never dug any deeper. 

Something tells him that Grantaire knows a much more about Montparnasse than he does though, and a part of Enjolras is itching to know why. But all Grantaire says is that Bahorel is in the city until the early hours and she should call if she needs him. 

With Eponine gone it’s much harder for Enjolras and Grantaire to tactfully ignore each other, and an awkward silence descends over both of them in her wake. Enjolras quietly sips his wine while Grantaire takes another bong hit, and he shoves his hands under his armpits to keep them warm. 

Grantaire must notice, because while Enjolras is shivering and tensing his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, he holds out one side of his duvet in invitation. 

“Get over here, you look freezing,” Grantaire says softly, and he jerks his head for Enjolras to come sit next to him. 

Enjolras tries to leave some distance when he sits cross-legged next to Grantaire, leaving barely enough of the duvet to fully wrap around them both, but Grantaire shuffles over until their thighs are touching and the duvet ends can meet in the middle. 

“I’m sorry—again—and I really do mean it.” Enjolras doesn’t think his first apology really counts, and he figures he might as well try again while Grantaire is subdued like this.

“It’s okay,” Grantaire says quietly, looking down until his face is hidden in shadow. 

“Is it?” 

“No. It’s not.” Grantaire looks up again and gives Enjolras a weak smile that fades too quickly. “But you’re impossibly hard to stay angry with.” 

Enjolras squirms at that. “Nobody’s ever had that complaint before.” 

“Lies,” Grantaire mumbles as he rests his head on Enjolras’ shoulder, pulling the duvet tighter around himself. 

“Honestly – Combeferre didn’t speak to me for two weeks once.” 

“Now you’re just being silly.”    

Enjolras thinks about getting up—it’s late and he has to be at work early tomorrow morning to tour a school group—but he feels so cosy pressed up against another body under a thick duvet. He’s never seen Grantaire like this at close proximity, drifting gradually to sleep and completely calm. 

This seems different to anything else though. Grantaire riding a particularly strong hit often ends up with him sitting in a corner slipping in and out of consciousness. He’ll conk out mid-meeting and wake up again, just in time to pick a hole in whatever argument Enjolras is using at the time. He tries not to stay too close to Grantaire when he’s at that stage. He won’t say anything, but watching Grantaire drop heavily into a chair and pass out with a smile on his lips made him shudder with unease. 

When Grantaire’s breath starts coming out in soft puffs and his limbs slacken a little, Enjolras carefully extracts the half-empty wineglass from his fingers before it can spill over both of them. He sets it aside and closes his eyes, listening to buses and cars in the distance and a fox rummaging in the closest side street. 

Enjolras is confused. About a lot of things really, but namely Grantaire. He’s always thought himself to be a good judge of character, but he can’t seem to get an accurate read on Grantaire. It makes Enjolras want to _scream_ , the way Grantaire has wriggled under his skin and is seeping into his bloodstream, picking him apart slowly with suggestive comments and snide remarks and crooked smiles. 

He doesn’t even know if it’s good or bad – half of the time Enjolras wants to pin Grantaire up against a wall and ask him what the hell is going on. Grantaire’s mind is brilliant, but he seems intent on wasting it on hacking Enjolras’ speeches to perforated shards of wishful thinking. When Enjolras is angry with him it’s usually because he expects more – he _knows_ Grantaire can give more—but he’s always met with the same self-deprecating cynicism. 

But then there’s _this_ , when Grantaire listens to what he says with a smile and watches him with unwavering interest. When Enjolras catalogues every small touch that passes between them: fingers lingering on a wine bottle for too long or Grantaire’s knee overlapping his. Confusion runs deep through Enjolras in moments like this, and it curls its fingers of apprehension and fear around his bones and it squeezes. 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything to anyone—not even himself—because he can’t name what it is he’s feeling exactly. He’s always been aware of people looking at him, taking an interest, wanting more (sixth form was an uncomfortable nightmare to put it simply). But he’s never felt unnerved by it – it’s never made him jumble his words or walk into tables or _leave meetings_. 

Grantaire stirs a little next to him, but only ends up shuffling closer so that he can all but bury his face into the side of Enjolras’ neck. Enjolras’ eyes fly open as he tenses, but once he realises Grantaire is still fast asleep he let’s himself relax for a minute or two, before remembering that he has to be up for work in a few hours. 

Enjolras shakes Grantaire gently, edging his head up with a hand on the back of his hair. “R, get up.” 

Grantaire pulls back at that, eyes just about open and squinting at Enjolras quizzically. “What?”

His eyes are red and tired, pupils wide and dark as he blinks slowly and yawns. Enjolras grips his elbow and hauls him upright, until Grantaire is wobbling on two feet and looking absolutely dishevelled. “You need to go to bed – are you okay?”

Grantaire nods and makes sure the duvet stays securely around their shoulders. “I’m just—I’m really very—fucked. Too much wine, on top of weed, on top of smack and—” 

Enjolras can barely make out his mumbling, but he lets Grantaire sling an arm loosely around his neck as he guides him back through the bedroom window. The only light in the room is a dim bedside lamp, and Enjolras tries to navigate around canvases and wooden boards and mugs of dirty water in the dark. Grantaire flops down onto the bed and is asleep again in a matter of seconds, and Enjolras spreads the duvet out over him and flicks the lamp off before he slips outside and shuts the window behind himself. 

He goes back to his own bed, absently scratching at his collarbone where Grantaire’s stubble had rubbed against it. There’s one wall between their bedrooms, and all of a sudden that wall seems a hundred times thinner. The layout of Grantaire’s bedroom is presumably a mirror image to Enjolras’, and their beds are both pushed back against the far wall and facing forwards. 

As Enjolras lies in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, he tries not to think about the four-foot distance that probably separates him from Grantaire right now. He tries not to think about Grantaire at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise stuff will get better after this omg, it's not all doom and gloom
> 
> come say hi or whatever ;u; between2devils.tumblr.com


	4. guilty pleasures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops sorry this took a little while, i was doing ~stuff and this chapter is longer than the others. um there's some detailed description of drug use so if that squicks you out easily then maybe skip past the first section of this chapter - it shouldn't confuse things too much.
> 
> (also i know AO3 has been a little loopy lately and anna said she didn't get an email about the last update - so idk you might wanna check and see if you missed that one!)
> 
> come chat on [tumblr](http://between2devils.tumblr.com) and also go kiss anna uwu

The first time Enjolras sees Grantaire shoot up it’s mid-November, their heating is broken, and he’s looking for Feuilly.

When Enjolras had been sorely complaining about the heating to Joly the day before, Feuilly had helpfully offered to lend him an electric heater they’d acquired last winter. He’d told Enjolras to come over after work the next day (“ _let yourself in, the door is usually open in the afternoon_ ”). So Enjolras does exactly that, wrapped up in a jumper and a coat _and_ gloves. He even starts to think that outside might be warmer than the house is – and that’s just _sad_. 

When he gets inside Feuilly’s place it feels like stepping into a gloriously toasty oven. He has to yank his scarf away from his neck and stuff his gloves into a pocket before the temperature change can let him feel like he’s on fire. It dawns on Enjolras that the house is incredibly quiet; no Bahorel yelling at the television or bounding down the stairs, no Feuilly swearing loudly from the kitchen, not even Grantaire singing at the top of lungs.

Enjolras wanders further inside, just to check if anyone is actually home, planning to come back later if there isn’t. Only he finds the door to the living ajar and realises that he is not in fact, as alone as he thinks. 

Grantaire is sprawled out on the sofa in nothing but a pair of navy boxers, filling Enjolras’ vision with an expanse of ivory skin, looking so pale against the dark material that it’s ghostly. There are bruises— _so many bruises_ —and tattoos that Enjolras hadn’t even thought to imagine, but he doesn’t have time to linger on them. Instead, he’s looking at the belt tied tight around Grantaire’s bicep, the end held taut and clenched between his teeth as he fills a syringe from a spoon. 

Until now, Grantaire’s problem has only ever been a fact that Enjolras is aware of. He knows it’s there and he sees the effects – but somehow this is the first time it has ever felt real. And what’s worse is that he can’t look away, like some kind of sick curiosity has crawled inside him and won’t budge.  This scene is private and one he’s not supposed to be a witness of, and he knows he should feel very guilty about watching Grantaire pat the inside of his elbow and tap the cylinder of the syringe with one finger. 

Enjolras watches the needle slide into the crook of his elbow, his own stomach twisting as he thinks about that brown gunk working its way into Grantaire’s veins. Grantaire draws a breath in slowly, but then he looks up and finds Enjolras still standing in the doorway, _watching_ , and the air gushes out of him all at once. And he looks right back at Enjolras, with parted lips and dark eyes, until the chamber of the syringe is empty.

Enjolras’ heart is beating furiously somewhere near his throat and even now he can’t will himself to move. He knows when the drugs hit Grantaire in full force, because his eyes close and he sinks into the sofa with a blissed out moan that is obscene in its own right. Only then, after hearing that sound leave Grantaire’s mouth, does Enjolras find it in himself to scurry the fuck out of there.

He walks straight past his own house and continues down the street, the cold seeping into his bare fingers and rushing through his open jacket, and a strong wind whips his hair around and bites at him. Enjolras wants to be far away from any enclosed space where he’ll be suffocated by the image of Grantaire that won’t leave his head. He walks until his feet ache and he can’t move his fingers. He keeps going until he’s halfway to Jehan’s flat and realises that even though he can’t see the bruises on Grantaire’s arms or his shins or his thighs anymore, he can still hear the noise he made. 

He doesn’t dream of Grantaire that night, he has nightmares instead.

But the next night – well that’s a different story. Enjolras dreams of unwashed black hair and pupils dilating while they watch him. He dreams of cracked lips open around intakes of breath, and a head thrown back as that sound, _that moan_ , crawls its way out. That’s about the time Enjolras jerks awake with his face buried in a pillow and a damp spot on his underwear. He hasn’t woken up like this since high school and it’s _mortifying_ ; for all he knows he’s been grinding down on his mattress all night, getting off to not only his neighbour – but his friend. 

The only thing worse than Enjolras being harder than he can ever even remember, would be him actually dealing with it when he knows where it came from. He’d never be able to look Grantaire in the eye again. And _that_ is how he ends up taking a freezing cold shower at six AM, in the middle of November.

  

\---- 

 

Marius’ birthday is on Saturday, and Courfeyrac has the whole evening planned. This is enough to have everyone vaguely concerned, but mostly excited – apart from Marius, who is just plain concerned. It’s set to be a messy night; most of them have been drowning in work or essays or reading and haven’t been on a night out in weeks, only just making it to the Musain for the meetings. 

Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre meet Jehan beforehand to get the overground into the inner city, and it gives them just enough time to grill Courfeyrac on his plans. Jehan, it seems, is fairly worried that Courfeyrac is going to do something that will send Marius to an early death, or at the very least, drive him away entirely. 

“Oh don’t be so melodramatic!” Courfeyrac says, kicking at Jehan’s foot playfully. “I could never drive him away—he’s like our own little Bambi—you have to admit that I mothered him for at least a year.”

“Bambi’s mother was shot,” Combeferre deadpans, not even looking up from his phone. 

Courfeyrac glares at him anyway and waves a hand in the air dismissively. “Whatever, then I’m Thumper. I taught him _everything_ he knows.” 

“Yeah well, it’s a shame you couldn’t teach him something about politics,” Enjolras scoffs, and he’s hit with three servings of disapproving looks. 

“At least he pretends to agree with you. Besides, we’ve all rubbed off on him and I think he’s genuinely starting to side with us – it’s more than just pissing off his granddad now.” 

Jehan threads his fingers through Courfeyrac’s and pulls their hands into his lap, still looking a little bit apprehensive. “Back to tonight, though. You haven’t planned anything… _weird_ , have you?” 

“Everything is _fine_ , me and Cosette have got everything sorted and under control and it’s going to be _normal_.”

“You and Cosette?”

“Of course. I needed a wingman—a _non_ -responsible wingman—and who better than his girlfriend?” Courfeyrac rolls his eyes and tries to throw both of hands in the air, tugging Jehan’s along with his own. “Honestly, I don’t know why you’re so worried!” 

“Courfeyrac, you took him to a gay bar last year and _didn’t tell him it was a gay bar_. I think Marius is still traumatised!” Jehan looks very unimpressed at Courfeyrac and Enjolras trying—and failing miserably—to hold in laughter. 

“You know I kept telling him, ‘Marius, how do you know if you’ve never tried?’” Courfeyrac says with an air of nostalgia. “I would be a completely different man today if I’d been too scared to try. What if I’d said no in year eleven when Combeferre—” 

“I’m going to punch you in the face if you don’t shut up,” Combeferre cuts in quickly, fixing Courfeyrac with a look that makes even Enjolras stay particularly quiet (although it stops being terrifying once Courfeyrac winks and Combeferre breaks out into a raging blush). 

Jehan coughs and sinks into his seat. “Yeah, Courf, I think we get it.” And the colour of his face matches Combeferre’s quite nicely.

  

They start out at a nondescript pub, just so everyone can meet in one place and have a few drinks before Courfeyrac’s ‘ _real fun’_ begins. Everyone has already arrived before they get there, except for Eponine who Grantaire has gone to pick up from the tube station. Enjolras is painfully aware of the fact that he has not seen or spoken to Grantaire since the _incident_ that occurred a few days ago. After his inappropriate and _completely_ obscene dream, Enjolras had decided that some distance wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.

It’s possible that this makes things even worse though, because when Grantaire steps through the door and sits down opposite Enjolras, he is hit with flashbacks of said dream, and they knock the air right out of him. Grantaire isn’t even wearing a jacket, just a long-sleeved black top that looks as if bleach was spilled on it at some point – probably something he found at the market where Feuilly works. It’s baggy on him, the collar stretched and sliding over his collarbones to reveal creamy skin. 

The worst part is that now Enjolras knows what’s under Grantaire’s shirt, he can’t _unsee_ it. He keeps picturing the litany of purple and blue bruises that mark his arms and hips, and even now Enjolras can see the green-yellow remnants of one poking out from under his top. When Grantaire stretches his arms above his head Enjolras can imagine the shift of muscles underneath, and that’s enough to make him choke on his drink. 

Grantaire is staring at him with an odd expression as he wipes his mouth and coughs, almost spilling his entire drink when Courfeyrac whacks him on the back with no warning. 

“You know what’s sad?” Bahorel says, providing a welcome interruption. He seems unusually maudlin as he glances around at everyone. “How many fucking couples there are in this group.” 

“He’s right actually – when has this ever happened before?” Courfeyrac pitches in, shrugging as everyone mulls it over. He’s not wrong – they’re not exactly known for long-lasting, tear-inducing relationships.

Bahorel steamrolls on, listing the different couples on his fingers, “Cosette and Marius, Courf and Jehan, Eponine and Montparnasse—” Eponine makes a face and mutters something about not being a couple. “For fucks sake, Joly and Bossuet are in a committed three-way!” 

“Thank you for making it sound so crude,” Joly says dryly, throwing a coaster at Bahorel’s head.

“Where is the lovely lady tonight?” Feuilly asks Bossuet, completely ignoring the squabble that has broken out between Joly and Bahorel.

“Working, sadly.” 

“Anyway—” Bahorel continues, “my point is that I’m left with nobody to be my wingman! I’m completely on my own if I want to pull tonight!” 

“Bahorel, there are still four other single men at this table,” Eponine looks at him as if she honestly cannot believe this is a conversation she has to be having, before she swipes his drink. 

“Feuilly is a little shit and will do everything in his power to cock-block me, Grantaire will try and make it a competition, Enjolras is too pretty, and Combeferre will just end up getting all of the girls!” Bahorel sits back with his arms crossed and looks put out as everyone around him agrees that it’s a fairly accurate assessment. 

Grantaire circles the rim of his glass of red wine with the tip of his finger and smiles to himself. “A competition _would_ be more fun though.” He looks up, the glint of a challenge in his eyes. “But you’re right, I’d definitely win.” 

Bahorel is half out of his seat with indignation. “I never said you’d win, you scrawny bastard!” 

“Come on now, you know I can kick your arse if I really want to.” 

“You’re not going to win!” 

 

That’s how they all end up at some _horrifically_ cheesy club night a couple hours later. Enjolras isn’t surprised in the least—this is exactly the sort of thing that Courfeyrac goes mad over—and he expects it’s one of those so-bad-it’s-good kind of things. 

“No, no, _no_! It’s just plain _good_ okay – there is nothing bad about confetti canons and all-male dance troupes in drag and dancing to Dolly Parton!” Courfeyrac shakes his head at Enjolras and looks disappointed in him. 

The place itself is on three different levels and looks like an old theatre – boxes and all. They stay on the lowest one where the bar is, which stretches out in a dance floor a few steps below. 

Courfeyrac—being the perfect little party planner that he is—brings shots for everyone over to a small table that overlooks the crowd of people below.  They all gather around and form a circle, picking up a shot and waiting for the speech that is practically inevitable.

Courfeyrac clutches a hand to his chest and raises his glass in the air. “Marius! My dear boy, Pontmercy, today you leave behind the follies of teenage adolescence and you become a man! You have twenty years of knowledge on your back now – and since most of it came from me this is a very emotional time.” 

There is an audible groan from various points around the circle, and Marius has gone bright red as Courfeyrac slings his arm around him and pinches his cheek. 

“Here’s to letting my little Bambi run free on his own!” Courfeyrac extends his glass to the centre and Cosette leads everyone else to follow, twelve glasses bumping together alongside cheering before everybody knocks one back. 

They all swan off in different directions then, and Enjolras _really_ doesn’t feel like dancing to the Spice Girls, despite all of Courfeyrac and Jehan’s ministrations to drag him out with them. He’s perfectly content with staying here for a while and joining them later.

Grantaire and Bahorel really do make a competition out of who can pull first, or the most – Enjolras wasn’t really listening. Although he’s pretty sure that whatever ridiculous amount Bahorel is betting, Grantaire probably doesn’t have. Enjolras has a prime viewing spot for where the two of them go weaving through the crowd, and he doesn’t know whether it’s curiosity or boredom that grips him but he decides to keep an eye on Grantaire.

Even without hearing him, Enjolras knows Grantaire is smooth when he applies himself. The guy is funny and intelligent to boot, and even though Enjolras has never actually seen him pick anyone up, Grantaire tells them about his latest conquests more than enough. 

Enjolras has never much believed him. Grantaire isn’t exactly the kind girls swoon over and line up for. He’s a man in his early twenties with no prospects that Enjolras is aware of, and only a look will tell you that he’s a mess. Grantaire has eyes that are always more pupil than anything else, perpetually chapped lips, and track marks up and down his arms. He looks sick half the time—from drugs, withdrawal, alcohol, sleep deprivation, not enough food, anything and everything—and people aren’t known to find almost translucent skin and purple circles under red eyes the most attractive thing in the world. 

The thing is, Enjolras can see how none of that matters. It’s not that the club is dark, it’s that Grantaire becomes so much more than that if he thinks you’re worth it – if you open yourself up to it. Enjolras watches him whisper in girls’ ears and smile at them in that sly way of his. He watches them laugh at whatever Grantaire is saying, looking up at him with fluttering eyelashes even though they still seem unsure. 

Grantaire can dance too, and Enjolras suddenly feels like the curiosity he has now is worryingly similar to the one he had in Grantaire’s house a few days ago. Enjolras finds himself absorbed by the way Grantaire’s hips align with some girl, his entire body pressed against her back as he plants his hands on her sides and trails his lips along her shoulder. 

Enjolras wouldn’t even think that was Grantaire’s type. It’s not like he knows what Grantaire is into, but even so, he didn’t really have him down for blushing little blondes. He’s never seen Grantaire go on actual date with anyone, but he’d always assumed Grantaire would like girls like Eponine who might try to outdrink him and won’t put up with his shit; or ones like Musichetta who will only out-flirt him. 

Enjolras feels terrible because he doesn’t even know the stranger that Grantaire is dancing with, but for some reason he can’t stand her already.

“Looking a little jealous there.” 

Cosette, appearing out of nowhere, sidles up to the table and hands Enjolras a beer. 

“Jealous of what?” Enjolras retorts, trying for nonchalant, but sounding defensive more than anything.

Cosette rolls her eyes and looks at him as if he’s a child – a look Combeferre mastered many years ago. “I think you know; you’ve been staring at him since he went out there.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“Did you know that you tense your jaw and look away when you lie?” 

Enjolras frowns at her and tenses his jaw even more. “I do not.” Cosette just fixes him with one of Those Looks again and takes a sip from her cocktail. Enjolras glances back at the crowd but can’t pick out Grantaire from all the people anymore. “I’m just…worried about him. He’s drunk and he might do something stupid.” 

“Because _that’s_ unheard of.” She smiles knowingly; as if she knows much more than Enjolras does himself. “Is it so hard to admit you care about him? What makes him any different from the rest of us?” 

“He’s a pain the arse, that’s what,” Enjolras grumbles, sliding his beer from hand to hand across the table. 

“I may be a pretty face but I am not an idiot – although you might well be. So I’m going to give you some valuable advice and you better listen: step the fuck up. Decide what the hell it is you want and take it, before he runs away and it’s too late.” 

Enjolras doesn’t plan on asking what exactly she thinks is going on – if he ignores her then she might just take pity on him and drop it. 

“Are you trying to work out how to get rid of me?” 

She smiles like an angel and Enjolras seriously has no idea how _Pontmercy_ managed to get this girl. “Don’t you have a boyfriend whose birthday it is – why aren’t you with _him_?” 

Cosette throws the little umbrella from her drink at Enjolras and it wedges itself somewhere in his hair. “He’s with Courfeyrac reliving their days as freshers. Or so Courfeyrac said, before he did three shots of vodka.” 

Enjolras truly fears for how this night will end. 

He just hopes it doesn’t involve vomit anywhere near his presence and definitely not on his shoes. If Courfeyrac plans on re-enacting their first year of university, Enjolras does not plan on re-enacting his time as Courfeyrac’s personal walking sick bag. Besides, Enjolras is only a little bit drunk and it looks as if it’s going to stay that way if they’re going to avoid some form of a disaster. After all, somebody has to make sure nobody ends up unconscious in a backstreet gutter. 

Cosette has been squinting at the dance floor for a little while, until she pushes away from the table suddenly and puts a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. 

“I’m going to, uh, find Marius, or Eponine. Try not to say anything stupid, okay?” 

Cosette is gone before Enjolras even has time to be confused, but it makes a little more sense a few seconds later when Grantaire comes and leans against the table in the same place she’s just left. His face is flushed, pink sitting high on his cheeks and sweat shining on his collarbones. His top is even more stretched out now, but when Enjolras tries to focus on Grantaire’s face all he sees is a suspiciously red and swollen mouth. 

“There’s a party in your hair,” Grantaire laughs, looking up at the stupid mini umbrella that’s still caught in his curls. Grantaire sways into him, still looking up with a happy grin as Enjolras instinctively puts an arm around him to prop him up. “What’re doing here by yourself?” 

“I don’t feel much like dancing. Definitely not drunk enough.” He doesn’t tell Grantaire that it has something to do with him saying he disliked Grantaire the last time he was remotely drunk.

“Don’t be such a party-pooper, Mr Sensible,” Grantaire teases, tugging on Enjolras’ tie. _God_ , why did he wear a _tie_ – did he really have such high hopes that Courfeyrac would plan something respectable?

He sighs and peels Grantaire’s fingers away from his tie before he can get strangled or pulled in any closer. “It’s sort of, I don’t know, boisterous out there.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow at him and gives a hint of a crooked smile, and suddenly all Enjolras can think about is the way Grantaire looked at him when he was caught peeping.

“Are you trying to tell me you’re not supressing an urge to dance to Prince or Madonna or Blackstreet? Because that’s a lie – _everybody_ has that urge, it’s fucking embedded in human nature.”

“Who’s Blackstreet?” 

Grantaire takes a step back and slams his hand down on the table, staring at Enjolras with wide eyes. “Who the fuck _are_ you? Jesus _fucking_ Christ, come on.” 

Grantaire grabs his arm and tugs him away, heading straight for the steps that lead into the main crowd. Enjolras tries to protest—yanking his arm away and complaining profusely and making up excuses—but either Grantaire doesn’t hear or he’s ignoring everything that’s coming out of Enjolras’ mouth. He weaves between people and leads Enjolras in, and there must be a god somewhere because he stops while they’re still close enough to the edge of the crowd; where bodies are more thinly spread and nobody is jostling the two of them into each other. 

Grantaire, under the influence of a cocktail of things Enjolras doesn’t even want to know about, is already moving with the music and nodding his head with the beat, waiting for Enjolras to shed his stone casing. Enjolras, however, has no plans to make a total fool of himself and is much more content to watch the fluidity with which Grantaire’s limbs move effortlessly. 

“What are you doing?” Grantaire shouts over the music, and Enjolras isn’t sure how he ended up in this situation after he tried _so_ hard to stay away from it. “Enjolras?” 

“I can’t dance,” he says quickly, as if the words will sound any less embarrassing out loud instead of circling around his head. He waits for Grantaire’s mocking, or a fit of laughter at his own expense, but it doesn’t come. Grantaire is just smiling at him with the brightness of floodlights, shaking his head and pushing at Enjolras’ shoulder lightly. 

“What, and you think Marius can? Half of us are skinny white boys – it’s a given that we cannot dance.” Enjolras scoffs at that because he’s seen Grantaire dance, it shouldn’t even be allowed in public places. “We’re in a club called _Guilty Pleasures_ and they’re playing _Push It_ , you do not need to look cool.” 

Grantaire grabs both of Enjolras’ hands and fits their fingers together, then starts moving their arms in a dance that looks very similar to the thirteen year old girls from the horrifically cringey school discos of his past. Grantaire doesn’t rest until Enjolras is moving though, even kicking his shin at one point just to get his feet off the spot, until they’re both laughing and Grantaire is twirling himself under Enjolras’ arm and spinning into his chest. 

“So you were snooping around the other day.” Grantaire’s smile is treacherous and far too close, and Enjolras wants to wipe it clean off. 

“I wasn’t snooping. I was looking for Feuilly.” Enjolras is glad it’s much darker down here; his ears feel as though they’ve gone bright red and the heat is spreading up his neck too. 

“Feuilly wasn’t home.” 

“He was supposed to be.” Enjolras spins Grantaire back out, only feeling minutely guilty when he throws Grantaire off-balance and he stumbles sideways. He reaches for Grantaire again, both hands going to the tops of his arms as he shouts for them to go somewhere quieter. 

Quieter just ends up being the bar area again, where the music is only marginally lower but actually allows conversation. The table Enjolras had been at before has been taken and the bar is packed, so he leads them to a free corner by the railing on either side of the steps.

“How long were you standing there?” Grantaire asks, and straight away Enjolras knows that he isn’t teasing anymore. 

“Long enough.” 

Grantaire’s face twists, looking bitter and affronted as his eyes bore into Enjolras. “Long enough for what? To realise you don’t want to be friends with a smackhead?” 

“Grantaire—”

His eyes dart around and he looks almost nervous now, rubbing at his eyes and refusing to look at Enjolras. “Or long enough to decide I’m too fucked up to change the world with you?” 

Enjolras’ eyebrows draw together as he stares at Grantaire’s mouth pressed into a thin line, and Grantaire is still determinedly looking away from him. 

“I don’t think that,” Enjolras says as gently as he can above the noise. 

“Really.” Sarcasm drips from Grantaire’s voice, and it’s already clear he’s slipped into a bad mood, one that Enjolras won’t be able to reverse.

In hindsight, Enjolras shouldn’t have taken it any further. He should have let Grantaire go find everyone else until he forgot why he was annoyed. But at this point he has a reputation to upkeep, and he can’t resist poking a bear with a stick. 

“You could help if you really tried.” 

Surprisingly though, Grantaire doesn’t rise to it. He just gives Enjolras a tired look; like he’s heard this argument so many times he can repeat it in his sleep (which he probably can – Enjolras isn’t very good at just watching Grantaire waste potential). 

“Maybe in another life,” he sighs, giving Enjolras a half-hearted smile. “Maybe we’ll be reincarnated and I’ll die with you to fight the bourgeoisie and the fucking one per cent. But right know, I just want to drink until I can’t feel anything.”

And just like that he’s gone, slinking off to get a drink or find a girl or whatever the fuck it is that Grantaire does. It’s infuriating though, the way he can decide on command to either disappear into a crowd or be the only one in there worth looking at. Enjolras sort of wants to punch him, but his anger is diluted with awe that he did not ask for.

Enjolras is tipsy and grouchy and tired, and in all honesty he just wants to go home and crawl into bed. But everyone else is filled to the brim with so much excitement that it makes him feel more exhausted from just watching them. They’re all back by the bar when Eponine tries to sneak off, getting a call from Montparnasse to come out with him instead. Grantaire whines for her to stay but he gets a bitten-off remark for his efforts, and it’s only Marius’ pleading that she stay for the rest of the night that prevents the group from splitting up. 

They end up following Eponine to a place a few streets down called The Underworld, and they all suspect that Marius regrets this decision greatly. It’s not terrible—it’s a pretty cool bar and the drinks are cheaper than the last place—but the same cannot be said for the company. Montparnasse is sitting in a booth with the usual droogs Enjolras has seen him with before, but the entire bar seems to be filled with Montparnasse’s breed of sketchy men and women. 

Eponine slides in next to Montparnasse, looking picture perfect with their leather jackets and the same jet-black hair. Enjolras has noticed the similarities between the two, but he’s never really seen the differences.  Where Montparnasse’s hair is slicked back and neat, Eponine’s is choppy with a home cut fringe and brown roots that are growing out. Montparnasse takes immense pride in his appearance—in a way that Enjolras hasn’t done since his parents stopped buying his clothes—and everything is designed to be noticed, from the crisp black shirt to the metal plating on the toes of his shoes. As usual, Enjolras wonders where the money for these fineries comes from, but he doesn’t think he needs to ask.

It’s clear that the invitation extends to Eponine only, and they head for another booth a few tables back, Enjolras heading the front with his chin tipped up and his shoulders set. They can’t come to a place like this and look as if they’re just following after Eponine, who is following after Montparnasse. Enjolras has learnt the hard way that it only makes them easy pickings. 

As usual, Montparnasse is seemingly pleasant, wishing Marius a happy birthday with a raise of his glass as they approach. He acknowledges Enjolras, eyes sweeping over him but giving nothing away, before he nods at Grantaire with the slightest hint of a smile, or maybe a smirk. Either way, Enjolras pretends not to see it and he tells himself he doesn’t care. 

They squeeze into the booth, only just fitting all eleven of them when they pull up some extra chairs around the end. Marius is squashed in at the centre of the booth looking a little uncomfortable, his eyes occasionally drifting over to Eponine who is tucked under Montparnasse’s arm. 

“Is she okay over there?” He asks Cosette, who looks over and can only shrug. 

Grantaire promptly cuts in, flippantly waving a hand through the air. “She’s fine. Now, Marius, you’re no longer a teenager so I have conceded that the time has come for you to have a _real_ drink.”

Bahorel and Feuilly exchange looks on either side of Grantaire, and there’s something worrying about all three of their smirks. 

“Come on, I’ll pay,” Bahorel says as he drags Grantaire out of his seat and up to the bar with him. 

Conversation bubbles up around Enjolras, but he can’t help but think about how out of place they all are. There’s Enjolras with his bright red duffle coat and blond hair that hasn’t seen a pair of scissors for close to a year, Jehan in an oversized silk shirt covered in a floral print, or even Bahorel in that _hideous_ knitted jumper he picked up last week. For god’s sake, Marius is wearing a fucking _tweed_ jacket. When it comes down to it, the most they’ve got in common with the rest of this bar is how tight their jeans are. 

Enjolras wonders if this is what the Musain is to them. You don’t have to belong to a clique or a group to be welcome there, but their group has sort of taken it over. There’s a lot of them, they’re loud, they’re regulars and they’ve befriended almost all of the staff. He’s never really stopped to think whether the meetings drive newcomers away; mainly because they also end up reeling in a few strangers each week to make up for it. 

Bahorel interrupts his reverie when he unceremoniously places a tray on the table, carrying ten small glasses filled with green liquid. Enjolras is about to ask where the last glass is when Grantaire hands him a beer. 

“Taking the rest of the night into careful consideration,” Grantaire says quietly enough for only Enjolras to hear, “I thought you’d rather take a rain check on the green fairy.”

“You’re very eloquent for someone who’s consumed enough alcohol to knock a normal person out.” 

“One of many talents,” Grantaire grins, giving Enjolras a wink so quickly that he almost thinks he imagined it. 

That round of absinthe is only the first, and as expected, the night gets incredibly messy after that. Marius cries while making a speech about how much loves them all, and Jehan almost punches someone when they make a completely inappropriate pass at him. Enjolras stays by Feuilly and Combeferre because they are currently the safest bets – everyone else either wants to start a fight or is a part of a sickeningly loved up couple. 

Grantaire has decided to mingle. And by mingling, Enjolras means Grantaire has already tried to charm the pants off the bartender and has now found himself in a corner with Montparnasse. Enjolras isn’t exactly prying, but he is surreptitiously watching the exchange. He’s too far away to hear anything, but whatever it is they’re saying must be private because Montparnasse keeps leaning down to speak in Grantaire’s ear, and Grantaire doesn’t back away even once. 

Enjolras stops looking once they disappear into the bathroom together. 

He doesn’t care; Grantaire can do whatever he wants. 

Except for the fact that Grantaire is very drunk and by default, reckless. Enjolras didn’t even think Grantaire _liked_ Montparnasse but apparently he was wrong. 

None of it matters though because Enjolras doesn’t give a damn about what or who Grantaire is doing. It’s absolutely none of his business anyway. 

Montparnasse and Grantaire emerge from the bathroom five minutes later, not even bothering to come out separately. Enjolras doesn’t know what to think, so he doesn’t think about it at all. He just sees Grantaire sniffing and rubbing his nose as he mumbles _thanks_ to Montparnasse. 

Grantaire is stuffed full of energy when he returns, bouncing in his seat and leaning across the table as he tries to convince Jehan that Classical Greece is better than Classical Rome. There are more drinks and almost all of them are Grantaire’s, until he’s so drunk that he falls out of his chair trying to kiss Feuilly.

That’s when Cosette calls it a night—much to Enjolras’ delight—and nobody really tries to argue. Apart from Enjolras, they’re all either too drunk or too tired to go anywhere else. Bahorel leaves first, going home with a girl he’s been buttering up all evening despite Feuilly’s hilarious attempts to sabotage him. Eponine stays behind with Montparnasse, Bossuet and Joly live close enough to walk home, and Cosette hails a cab for her and Marius back to his flat. The rest of them end up trekking it to the nearest tube station for the last train back, and Enjolras gets stuck looking after Grantaire who has undoubtedly overdone it. 

Grantaire has one arm looped around Enjolras’ neck as they lag behind the others, and Enjolras finally appreciates how sturdy Grantaire is behind the illusion of him being mostly skin and bones. Next time he thinks Grantaire is looking starved he will remind himself of this moment and how Grantaire is steadily dragging him down like a deadweight. 

“Enjolras.” 

“Yes, Grantaire.” 

Grantaire trips over the curb and almost pulls Enjolras into the gutter with him. He straightens up and tries again. 

“Enjolras, you look like Paddington Bear,” he laughs into Enjolras’ neck, his breath burning the skin where it’s been exposed to the cold. Grantaire fiddles with one of the toggles on Enjolras’ coat, both arms wrapped around him now. 

“Paddington Bear wears a blue duffle,” Enjolras sighs. He might have laughed if Courfeyrac hadn’t told him the same thing when he bought it.

“No I’m sure -- he wears a red one sometimes. But you’re much cuter than Paddington Bear.” Grantaire somehow manages to get his hands up the bottom of Enjolras’ coat so he can poke at his sides and make him squirm and fold over in the middle of the street. 

Enjolras glares at Grantaire and firmly removes his hands, holding his wrists out at arms length until Grantaire stops laughing. “Fuck off.” 

“It was a compliment, you tit.” Grantaire bops him on the nose and goes careening off to catch up with the others, dragging Enjolras by the hand behind him as he half-runs and half-skips. 

The energy only lasts for so long, and Grantaire completely crashes after they change lines and get on a second train. While Courfeyrac and Jehan cosy up to each other and decide that PDA is no longer any kind of barrier, Combeferre sits a few seats away with Feuilly talking about bands Enjolras has never heard of. 

Enjolras is on the opposite side facing them all, and Grantaire keeps mumbling nonsense as he burrows into Enjolras’ side and rests his head against his chest. Enjolras tries to keep him awake and his hands and legs to himself, but Grantaire is having none of it as he puts his hand over Enjolras’ mouth and tells him to stop talking. This feels scarily similar to when Grantaire had fallen asleep on the roof, and Enjolras isn’t sure how he keeps getting into this position or why he never does anything to get out of it. 

“I feel like death,” Grantaire groans quietly, and Enjolras’ liver really sympathises with him. He’s not even sure how Grantaire hasn’t thrown up yet, especially since Enjolras would be probably be unconscious for three days straight after consuming that much alcohol. 

“We’re almost home.” It’s a lie, but one Enjolras is willing to make. The overground trains stopped running a while ago and they’ll have to get the night bus the rest of the way back. 

“Can I lie down?” Grantaire asks, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Enjolras can’t help but think he looks incredibly adorable, even if he smells like a tramp and looks worse for wear. He finds himself nodding at Grantaire, unable to say no to those sleepy eyes, even though he knows getting Grantaire up at the next stop will be hell. 

There’s nobody but the six of them in the carriage, so Enjolras doesn’t say anything when Grantaire scoots down and puts his head in Enjolras’ lap, his body curled up over three seats. It feels so close though, like they’ve crossed some unspoken boundary and Enjolras is the only one to notice it. He looks to Combeferre, hoping for some moral support or advice or something conveyed through a look, but he’s already dozed off on Feuilly’s shoulder.  

Enjolras tentatively strokes a hand through Grantaire’s hair, letting the curls slip between his fingers as he brushes them back from Grantaire’s face. It’s something he remembers his mother doing for him whenever he was sick, and he lets his nails gently scrape Grantaire’s scalp in the same way. 

“Why’re you being so nice?” Grantaire asks around a contented sigh, his voice muffled in Enjolras’ jeans.

“Because we’re friends?” And it’s true; at some point or another Enjolras has done this for all of his friends. Which begs the question: why does it feel so monumental when it’s Grantaire? 

Grantaire shifts and turns over so that he’s sort of facing Enjolras (but mostly facing his crotch). “Are we though?” 

Enjolras feels a pang of guilt. He really hopes Grantaire doesn’t believe they’re not. So maybe Enjolras sees Grantaire differently to the others, but he can’t even explain that to himself.

“Of course we are, you’re one of us.” 

Grantaire tips his head back to smile at Enjolras. “But I’m the most fun, right?” 

“Are you going to sleep or not?” 

 

Once they reach Islington it’s a real feat for Enjolras to get Grantaire up and mobile, as well as waking up Combeferre and Feuilly, and convincing Courfeyrac and Jehan that they really have to get off the tube _right_ _now_ before the doors close. Then by some wonderful twist of fate they only have to wait five minutes for a bus to come by, and they all bundle into the seats at the back. Courfeyrac has decided to crash with Jehan, so they leave them on the bus when they get off at Dalston and walk the rest of the way home.

It’s absolutely freezing out and Enjolras is sure that any minute now Grantaire will turn into a giant icicle. God knows what convinced him to come out without a coat or even a scarf or gloves, but he’s shaking like a leaf and can barely move. Enjolras is so sure that Grantaire is about to bite his tongue off if his teeth keep chattering so much, that he stops to pull Grantaire close and rub up and down his arms vigorously.

“You’re such an idiot,” Enjolras grits out, watching Grantaire wet his lips that are cracked and pale now.

Grantaire shuffles closer and slips his hands into Enjolras’ coat pockets, fists tightly balled up and his whole body still shaking. “You smell nice,” Grantaire says quietly, burying his face in the space where Enjolras has left the top toggle of his coat undone. 

Enjolras feels a blush creep up on him, rising all the way up his neck and spreading to his cheeks, and his skin feels far too hot for the temperature outside. This is steadily becoming a problem – before Grantaire he was fine and Jehan was the only one to blush at nothing. 

“You’re very drunk,” Enjolras mumbles, flinching at the press of Grantaire’s cold forehead against his neck. 

“You always smell nice though. It’s not fair.” 

“You’ll regret this tomorrow,” Enjolras says, trying to laugh but hating the awkward sound that leaves his mouth. 

Grantaire makes a noise that gets lost in Enjolras’ coat and pulls away, walking off ahead with his hands shoved under his armpits. He doesn’t look to see if Enjolras is following when he says, “I always wake up regretting my existence.” 

“Grantaire!” Enjolras jogs a little to catch up and he grabs Grantaire’s arm to turn him around. “Here, put this on.”

Enjolras shrugs out of his coat and holds it out for Grantaire, who stands there a moment just looking at it. Enjolras gives it a shake and repeats himself, until Grantaire sheepishly lets him slide his arms into it. He lets Enjolras walk next to him again, guiding him away from any lampposts and making sure he doesn’t smash his face on the pavement whenever he stumbles. 

“Thanks, Enjolras,” Grantaire says when they’re outside their houses and Feuilly is trying to get the key in the door. 

Enjolras will vehemently deny that his insides feel suspiciously gooey as he nods in return before following Combeferre inside quickly, heading straight for bed and avoiding any questions at all costs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pst if you're ever in London, specifically the Camden area, then seriously go check out Guilty Pleasures at KOKO. it's the most fun you will have in forever and you'll probably lose your voice or at the very least, your dignity


	5. nunc est bibendum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I BRING YOU BONERS AND A DOUBLE SIZE CHAPTER
> 
> kisses to my darling [anna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ithurtstobecome/pseuds/ithurtstobecome), who has known about the best part of this chapter since i texted her the ridiculous idea from a hospital waiting room in june uwu

By now Enjolras knows the timings of Grantaire’s routine that brings him out onto the roof. 

On Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays he has a cigarette before leaving for work in the morning; Tuesdays and Wedesndays he only works in the afternoon so wakes up late and goes out for a smoke around ten AM. A lot of the time Grantaire stays out all Friday night, returning in the early hours of Saturday and spending most of the morning and early afternoon recovering. 

Every other Sunday he does art workshops for the kids in the local area (something Grantaire has never told Enjolras, but Jehan let slip). On the Sundays in between, much like this one, Enjolras usually finds him on the roof at midday in his pyjamas, a cup of black coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. 

Upon first realising he knew of this, Enjolras may have freaked out for a while, but really – he just pays attention. In college he probably had Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s timetables memorised in the same way, and again in university. He’s not _stalking_ Grantaire; he’s just observant about some things. 

That’s why Enjolras is climbing out of his window, precariously gripping a cup of tea in one hand, fully expecting to see Grantaire out there already. Grantaire turns around when he hears the commotion, a smile growing on his lips as Enjolras says hello and sits himself down on the partition. 

“You look disgustingly perky today,” Grantaire croaks, sticking a filter between his lips as he starts to roll a cigarette. 

“And you look like shit,” Enjolras smirks back at him, wrapping both hands around his mug to keep them warm.

Grantaire is standing by the roof’s edge and looking out across all the rows of houses in front of them, dirty chimneys and shitty satellite dishes marring the skyline. He’s in his pyjamas still, a faded t-shirt of some band and a pair of plaid bottoms that look old and worn out but still slip down his bony hips and hang off him. His hair looks worse than usual, sticking up at all angles and curls going wild on one side and flat on the other (Enjolras isn’t thinking about this being what Grantaire looks like when he first wakes up; he’s definitely not thinking about which side of the bed Grantaire sleeps on). 

“So er, thanks for looking after me last night,” Grantaire says, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He only looks at Enjolras for a second before sheepishly looking away again to light his cigarette. 

Grantaire is not known to be shy, and a part of Enjolras wants to file away the embarrassed look on his face. “It’s alright. Someone had to do it.” 

Grantaire laughs awkwardly, smoke spilling out of his mouth and dissolving around him. “I may have overexerted myself, yes.” 

Enjolras watches Grantaire stretch and roll his neck and shoulders—wincing when Grantaire cracks his back—and catches a glimpse of dimples on his lower back where his shirt rises up. Enjolras’ mouth suddenly feels very dry, and he ends up gulping down his tea so fast it burns his throat. 

“I didn’t do anything…weird…last night, did I?” Grantaire asks carefully, wandering back over to where Enjolras is sitting. 

“Nope, nothing more than usual.” 

Grantaire punches him in the arm but can’t help but smile. “Fuck, I still can’t believe Marius drank all that absinthe. That boy was _wasted_.” He gives a low whistle and shakes his head.

“And I wonder who’s responsible for that?” Enjolras quips, laughing at Grantaire’s dropped jaw and the hand he’s dramatically clutching to his chest. 

“I’m offended!” Enjolras rolls his eyes and ignores the look on Grantaire’s face. “Honestly, I only proposed the first round – it was Courfeyrac’s idea to have more!” 

“Yeah alright, you’re off the hook this once.” 

Grantaire blows smoke straight into Enjolras’ face and sticks his tongue out. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint you, now would I?” 

Enjolras shifts on the spot, very deliberately not trying to decipher whatever double entendre Grantaire just slipped his way. He quickly changes the subject and pretends he didn’t hear. “Are you coming to the Musain this afternoon? There are some ideas I want to go over with everyone.” 

Grantaire looks down as he rolls his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, flicking ash away before saying, “Can’t make it today. I’ve got a…thing.” He sits down next to Enjolras, still not looking at him, and takes a drag from his cigarette. “With Montparnasse, so I can’t really get out of it.”

“Oh.” 

Enjolras feels his stomach drop instantly, and it must be instinct or suspicion or _something_ because Montparnasse has never actually done anything to him. But it’s something that Grantaire can’t get out of – does that sound vaguely suspicious or is that completely irrational? 

“Come on, it’s not as if you’ll miss my presence,” Grantaire say lightly, but it sits heavy in Enjolras’ ears. 

“That’s not true.” 

“How many times have you told me to go home because I’m being a nuisance? Or have you to come to _like_ my interjections of realistic thinking?” 

“I like hearing your input when you’re being serious,” Enjolras mutters, and he really hadn’t planned on telling Grantaire any of this. “It’s nice to have a stimulating argument with someone, instead of just giving speeches or trying to make ignorant people understand.” 

“Well you’ll have to do without me for one day,” Grantaire says sarcastically, looking at Enjolras with an amused smile. There’s a touch of shyness there too, and Grantaire ducks his head as he runs a hand through his hair. “Did we leave Eponine with Montparnasse last night?” 

“Yeah, she stayed. Can I uh, ask what the deal is with Montparnasse?”

Grantaire sighs heavily and shrugs, stubbing out his cigarette. “I dunno. He’s known Eponine for a really long time. She always says they’re not dating – but _obviously_ they’re fucking so who knows.”

It’s not exactly what Enjolras meant; he was more hoping to know what Montparnasse is to _Grantaire_ , but he supposes it will do for now. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s prying – even though that’s very much what he’d like to do. 

“I have to get going, but I’ve got something for you.” Grantaire stands up and beckons Enjolras over to his window as he roots inside.

Grantaire’s legs dangle outside of the window while his top half rummages around a desk that is piled high with things. The curtain—Enjolras says curtain, but he thinks it’s just one of those large pieces of cheap decorative cloth from Camden market, pinned up haphazardly with some nails—is drawn and keeps most of the room hidden from view. 

“Shit—ah, here!” Grantaire huffs, pulling himself back out the window and turning around quicker than Enjolras anticipates. They’re left standing close enough that their chests are touching and Grantaire’s forehead bumps Enjolras’ nose. “Um…” 

Enjolras’ brain flickers to a halt, shutting down entirely and leaving him frozen as Grantaire chews his lip and his eyes wander down to look at Enjolras’ mouth. He’s sure this is when he’s supposed to back away, but Grantaire isn’t saying anything he’s just _looking_ at him, like he’s made of gold or something. He almost thinks Grantaire is going to kiss him, but maybe he imagines Grantaire’s lips parting and the intake of breath, because a moment later Grantaire is clearing his throat and shoving Enjolras’ red coat between them. 

“Um, yeah. You forgot this.” 

Enjolras takes it from him and steps back, looking anywhere but Grantaire’s face and the bewildered expression on it. “Thanks, I’ll just uh, get out of your hair now.” 

He really hopes that Grantaire can’t see how much his hands are shaking as he legs it out of there. 

\---- 

Enjolras is wrapped up in about five layers and has been loitering on the Stand all day with Joly and Bossuet. At some point last night they’d promised Cosette they’d help out with bits and bobs for the Feminism Society at her own university. And apparently ‘bits and bobs’ is code for freezing your balls off while trying to get uninterested students to accept a flyer for an upcoming protest. 

“This is terrible,” Joly sniffles, his nose red with cold and his ears safely trapped under a pair or furry earmuffs. “I am ninety per cent sure that I have caught the flu. I’m also a hundred per cent sure that I have hypothermia right now.”

“You’re fine,” Bossuet sighs, teeth chattering as he takes another look at Joly. “I’ll tell you if your lips turn blue.” 

“Romance at its finest,” Enjolras scoffs, and he has to admit that the weather is taking it out of him too. He’d been trying to strike up discussions with people passing and those who stopped to see what they were distributing, but there’s only so much energy he can muster up when the wind is intent on making his gloveless fingers drop off. 

“Speaking of romance – we saw you dancing with Grantaire last night.” Joly nudges Enjolras with his elbow and wiggles his eyebrows. 

“It was nothing.” 

“It didn’t look like nothing,” Bossuet presses, a wide grin on his face as he moves to stand in front of Enjolras, creating a tiny circle for them to huddle in. “The two of you were very cute. Happy.” 

Enjolras glares at him. “We are not cute. In fact, we’re just not a ‘we’ – period.” 

Joly rolls his eyes and exchanges a look with Bossuet. “There are some significant moments to choose from here. You two were plastered together on your first meeting – and I’ve never seen anyone grope you without getting a bloody nose. What about that time you were arguing so much that we all left you in the Musain and neither of you noticed – or when that creepy guy at the Corinthe spiked Grantaire’s drink and you looked murderous while you were quietly threatening him?” 

“He was trying to _drug_ Grantaire!”

“You’re missing the point, Enjolras. There’s something more there and you know it.” Joly gives him a softer look than Jehan probably would, and he looks to Bossuet to agree with him. 

Enjolras huffs a sigh of annoyance and scuffs his shoes against the pavement. “How are you even supposed to know if you like someone as more than a friend…” 

Bossuet slings an arm around Enjolras and leads them towards a café down the street. “You just _know_. You get all the weird feelings and stuff.” 

“I’ve never done this before though – maybe I’m interpreting everything wrong.” 

Joly walks on Enjolras’ other side and links their arms together. “You can tell us how much you want to take his clothes off over hot chocolate.” 

\---- 

Things get simultaneously better and worse on the same night, a few weeks afterwards. They’re having their weekly meeting at the Musain—the actual serious group meeting instead of everyone coming for after-work and after-class drinks—and Enjolras starts out so full of hope. 

Before the meeting starts, while Jehan and Courfeyrac are still whispering to each other and Joly and Bossuet are cosied up with Musichetta while she takes a break, Enjolras is frantically pulling his tie loose and undoing the top buttons of his shirt. If there’s anything he hated about school and college, it was wearing a tie, and yet here he is, once again doing it almost every day (even if he does manage to get away with an open collar and sloppy tie at the best of times at work). 

Enjolras at least has the foresight to shift the meeting from a Wednesday to a Friday this week, knowing that good news only leads to one thing when they’re all in the Musain together. 

Marius has stopped showing up at the meetings again—not that Enjolras has particularly noticed—and coincidentally Eponine has been making more of an appearance lately, bringing a female voice to the group that they are very much in need of at most times. Cosette rarely wanders into these parts of London at all, but after getting help from Enjolras, Joly, and Bossuet for her Feminism Society she offers to do whatever she can for them in return. 

That’s sort of what starts this whole thing, and he’s halfway through trying to explain the news when Grantaire snorts derisively and wrecks Enjolras’ train of thought _again_. Enjolras pauses to take a deep breath, determined not to lash out at him today, before continuing. 

“As I was saying; because of Joly, Bossuet, and Jehan we’ve retained good ties with the university’s political societies. The presidents of them still think that we did more in our time there than any other incarnation of the societies has done before us, at least for a few decades. So they’re willing to link up with us acting as a group outside of the university, but if anything we do gives wind of getting as out of hand as last time, they can only offer their individual support without dragging the university’s name with them.” 

Combeferre hums and adjusts his glasses, looking altogether unruffled by how the deal is only second rate. “It’s understandable from their point of view,” he sighs. “We headed every single protest and rally that gave the university bad press last year, and they’ve seen what happened to us. The university wanted to make an example of us and they have.” 

“Well it’s not the end of the world, is it? Most of the people in these societies—the ones that have any sway—know that we’re trying to do good things and that we don’t want to screw any of them over,” Courfeyrac pitches in optimistically. Enjolras’ face twists, but he refrains from interrupting.

“You’re always going on about making the mass rise with us,” Courfeyrac says directly to Enjolras this time. “Well this is a bloody good start that we shouldn’t knock. In case you haven’t noticed, Les Amis isn’t a huge group, and this way we can get at least four student societies fighting on our side – maybe more depending on which issues we choose to target.” 

Enjolras looks to Grantaire instinctively, waiting for him to chip in with something that punches all that optimism right in the gut. But Grantaire stays suspiciously quiet in his place at the back, apparently preoccupied with pouring himself a glass of wine instead. Enjolras assumes he hasn’t been listening to a word that’s been spoken, and he rolls his eyes in silent irritation. 

Enjolras gets back to the point in hand, and remembers that he had intended this to be a discussion of good news. He’s not sure when Grantaire’s scepticism rubbed off on him, and he suspects he’s only trying to fill the gap that Grantaire usually does. 

It doesn’t feel the same though. The words of caution and wariness and thinking of things from the worst angle sit in his mouth like lead, unfamiliar and bad tasting. Coming from Grantaire they have the opposite affect, making Enjolras work twice as hard to prove that they’re on the road to success. 

“Sorry, I know, I didn’t mean to come across as ungrateful or anything,” Enjolras mumbles eventually, running a hand through his hair. “It’ll be great for us. Especially combined with Cosette, who says that she’s managed to persuade her own uni’s Feminist Society that we’re a worthy ally to have. Of course she wants it to be a reciprocal relationship – we’ll need to lend our support to them as well.” 

“Wow, this is really happening, things are falling into place much quicker than I first imagined. This is so exciting!” Joly looks around, grinning happily, and Jehan starts laughing in relief. 

“Does this mean we’re officially an unstoppable force?” Jehan says, and Courfeyrac nods frantically before kissing him on the mouth a little giddily. 

Enjolras feels pleasantly giddy himself, and he’s glad to see Combeferre with a similar expression on his face. It really does feel like they’re finally finding their footing again after the tumble they took with university. 

Grantaire finally pipes up, still staying unusually quiet about the whole thing, though not saying anything Enjolras doesn’t expect.

“If this is a celebration then surely we need some drinks in here?” 

There’s a general murmur of assent around the group, but Enjolras and Combeferre exchange glances and hesitate. 

“Nunc est bibendum!” Grantaire presses, his voice growing louder as he breaks out into a defiant smirk and threatens to challenge any refusal Enjolras offers up. 

“Shut up, you private school ponce,” Feuilly teases, before throwing a balled up piece of paper at Grantaire’s head. Eponine laughs and pelts a coaster at Grantaire too, just for good measure. 

“Drinks _would_ be nice though.” 

Enjolras resists the temptation to glare at Eponine because now it’s too late, and Grantaire knows he’s already gotten his way. 

Enjolras grimaces at the smug look on his face. 

“Shots, shots, shots!” Courfeyrac chants, drumming his hands on the table as he slowly rises.

Combeferre shoots him a withering look and looks at his watch. “We are not starting a night with shots at seven PM. Have you learnt nothing from your first-year mistakes?” 

“Ugh, killjoy. Grantaire, care to join me at the bar?” 

“Why of course,” Grantaire answers cheerfully, getting to his feet and bending over in an elaborate bow. 

They leave them to it and begin their own, slightly less vigorous, celebration. Musichetta has to go back to work but she brings them all drinks on the house and passes them around, telling Enjolras to drink up when he sips tentatively at what might be a rum and coke. The excitement that the group seems to be exuding ends up drawing in a few other people – a handful of girls who sometimes get after-work drinks at the Musain and sit in on their meetings, and another gaggle of students who probably just want to be where the fun is. 

It’s Bahorel’s idea to play Ring Of Fire – so all the blame falls to him for what happens as a result. Bahorel, however, thinks it will be fun and the girls pressed to either side of him agree. 

“Got a pack of cards, genius?” Feuilly asks sarcastically, and Bahorel looks as though he really forgot to think this through. 

“I have cards!” Joly throws a pack on one of the tables between them all. When Feuilly raises an eyebrow at him he simply shrugs, saying, “You never know when you might need cards. And sometimes me and Bossuet play games when we’re waiting for something.” 

Bahorel laughs and snatches up the pack, emptying them out onto the table and spreading them out in a circle. He places his almost-empty pint of beer in the middle of the circle, and tells everyone to get themselves a new drink and not to get too much of the same thing. While Jehan and Eponine go off to get drinks for their lot, Bahorel explains the rules to the others (he doesn’t get far, instead just saying, “you’ll pick it up as we shout them out anyway…”). 

“Thought you’d all like to know that Courfeyrac and Grantaire are getting girls to do body shots off them, and Musichetta is about to laugh herself into a coma,” Eponine says breezily as her and Jehan come back with a tray of drinks each.

“Don’t worry, we took a few photos while we were there.” Jehan plops down next to Enjolras in an oversized armchair and hands him a new drink, setting the tray down on another table. Him and Eponine are still giggling a little bit, as they get comfortable again.

Enjolras has vague recollections of this game from a few years ago – it was Courfeyrac’s favourite when they were in college. He distinctly remembers having to drink the King cup, which come to think of it, is probably why he rarely drinks to excess anymore. Courfeyrac’s utmost respect just wasn’t worth the half hour of chundering that followed. 

Eponine pulls out an eight from the circle of cards. _Mate_. She looks around their crowded group before her eyes catch on Enjolras and a smirk creeps across her lips. Enjolras knocks back a sip of his drink at the same time as her, wincing as the mystery liquid burns its way down this throat. 

“Six is dicks!” Feuilly cheers, and Enjolras drinks again with all the other guys. He’s already worried that this will end up just like the last time he played this game. 

In fact, Enjolras is so busy remembering how much he _really_ hates this stupid game that he completely misses when someone pulls a seven. 

“Enjolras, you’re giving Bossuet a run for his money,” Joly laughs. Everyone is pointing a finger towards the ceiling, except for him. _Another drink_. 

He manages to stay safe for a few rounds, but to no great surprise Bahorel won’t allow that for long. 

He’s got a card stuck to his forehead as he waves around a two of spades, contemplating who to pick on. Enjolras deliberately looks down at his feet and tries to subtly hide behind Jehan. 

“I’m going to choose… Enjolras.” 

Of course. 

Enjolras glares at Bahorel and makes for Jehan’s drink – his own already drained. 

“Are you trying to fucking kill me?” Enjolras squirms at the sound of his own voice, all shrill and words starting to slur a little already. 

“Wait!” Bahorel strokes his chin and chuckles when they all hear Grantaire and Courfeyrac singing from the other room. “I want to change this rule. If you get a two, you choose someone to do a _dare_.” His grin is absolutely feral. 

“Accepted!” Bossuet slams his fist down on the table, and apparently as the only person still studying law in the room, his say is final. 

“Enjolras, you’ll enjoy this, I promise.” Bahorel slouches back in his chair and grins even wider. 

“I doubt it.” Enjolras feels sick already. The only thing he hates more than Ring of Fire is dares. 

Bahorel shrugs and brings his hands up behind his head, his completely relaxed posture making Enjolras feel more apprehensive. “You have to do a body shot off Grantaire.” 

Enjolras gapes at Bahorel. “Absolutely not.” 

Bahorel folds his arms instead now, purposely flexing his biceps as he stares Enjolras down. “Dares are not negotiable.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“Enjolras, if you don’t take a shot off Grantaire’s chest I will make it my personal business to terrorise you until you kill me.” He leans forwards, eyes completely serious. “And then I will fucking haunt your skinny arse.” 

As much as Enjolras would like to admit he held his ground, he doesn’t doubt for a second that Bahorel will follow up with that threat. So he reluctantly agrees, much to Bahorel’s own amusement. 

Meanwhile, Jehan is muttering a string of curses under his breath and Feuilly is looking at Bahorel with a flinty expression. 

“Christ, I have to see this,” Eponine says, jumping to her feet as Enjolras slowly leads the way to the front room of the Musain.

Feuilly grumbles something quietly to Bahorel and stays back with the others, while Bahorel, Eponine, and Jehan come for what they are calling _moral support_ (although Enjolras is positive that Bahorel is just making sure he doesn’t chicken out). 

Enjolras takes his time climbing the short flight of stairs, the unmistakable sounds of his friends and screaming girls getting louder as he approaches. He rounds the corner and sees Grantaire and Courfeyrac lying on a booth table—by the _window_ —leaning up on their outstretched arms. Courfeyrac has his head tipped back in laughter as one girl pours a shot of tequila down his front, another bent over between his legs as she tries to catch it all. 

“We really can’t take them anywhere,” Jehan says to Enjolras, shaking his head with an embarrassed laugh.    

Enjolras frowns at him, and looks back to Courfeyrac, who has girls swooning all over him. “Doesn’t this bother you? I mean you’re… together, aren’t you?” 

Jehan shrugs and follows Enjolras’ line of sight. “It’s an open sort of thing, we can get with other people.” He lets his hair fall into his fair as he ducks his head and turns back to Enjolras, speaking quietly. “What we have is different, it’s more special.” 

Bahorel reappears by Enjolras’ side then, clapping him on the shoulder a little too firmly. “I’m going to talk to these girls about your little dare – stay here a minute.” 

Eponine and Bahorel approach them together, while Jehan edges away to Courfeyrac, a little skip in his step as he bites down on a grin. Enjolras is left standing a few feet away, feeling horribly abandoned and alone. 

Enjolras makes the mistake of looking to Grantaire, unable to go back to staring at the wall as soon as he does. Grantaire looks all kinds of inappropriate – his chest wet with the remnants of alcohol and his jeans slipping so low that Enjolras wonders if he’s even wearing underwear. Which – _no_ , that is not what he should be thinking about, _ever_. But even that isn’t enough to shame Enjolras into looking away, and he’s just staring at the line of Grantaire’s throat and all the tattoos he’s never been close enough to make out. 

Then a girl with blonde choppy hair is whispering into his ear from behind, her arms wrapped around his neck, and Enjolras feels something vile rise up through himself and he turns away abruptly. This faces him to Musichetta, who leans down on the bar and shoots him a significant look, eyebrows raised and expecting. 

“Right, your time has come oh holy Apollo.” Bahorel appears by Enjolras’ side and takes him by the arm, dragging him forwards to his tragic fate. 

Enjolras’ brain catches up with him, and in confusion he’s asking, “What did you just—” because he’s only ever heard that ridiculous nickname from Grantaire that first time on the roof. 

“Oh, nothing.” But Bahorel looks at him with an air of amusement and pushes Enjolras stumbling towards the table that Grantaire is occupying.

Out of nowhere, Eponine takes him aside (and Enjolras is starting to feel like a rag doll being passed between them all). She turns them around so that Enjolras’ back is to Grantaire, and she seems to keep looking between the two of them. 

“Do you know how to do this?” 

Enjolras nods, then changes his mind and shrugs. He has no idea what kind of spin Courfeyrac and Grantaire will have put on this. “I’m not sure.” 

“Okay, well these girls will put the salt and lime on Grantaire, and they’ll pour the shot too. Lick the salt off first, then the shot, then take the lime with your mouth.” Enjolras must look worryingly vacant, because Eponine kicks him in the shin before taking his chin between her thumb and finger. “Don’t do anything stupid, Enjolras.” 

He wants to object to that, because this doesn’t sound like it will be too hard. A little humiliating maybe, but nothing he can’t handle. 

He wants to nurse the throbbing of his shin but Eponine is using all of her strength to push him right in front of Grantaire, who doesn’t even appear to know what’s about to happen. His eyes are half closed, head tipped back as a girl with a green pixie cut talks to him and the blonde girl from before pours salt on him. 

Enjolras goes still, his heart hammering beneath his ribcage as a wave of something anxious sweeps over him. The line of salt is placed just above the top of Grantaire’s jeans, a line of white that runs alongside a trail of dark hair that stops below his navel. Then the wedge of lime goes in Grantaire’s mouth and Enjolras is suddenly quite sure that he cannot do this. 

He can’t even explain what it is, he just can’t. And he’s probably done worse in his Courfeyrac-influenced youth, but this is too much and he wants to back out right now. 

He doesn’t get the opportunity though, because Jehan is gently nudging him forwards with a hand on the small of his back, a slightly apologetic smile on his face when Enjolras looks to him desperately. 

“Come on, don’t get all shy now,” the girl with green hair says, looking friendly enough as she beckons him even closer, to stand right between Grantaire’s open legs. “Your friend told us everything.” She winks, and Enjolras doesn’t quite know what that’s supposed to mean but he nods automatically. 

Before Enjolras knows it, Bahorel’s voice is booming across the Musain and counting from three, then someone pushes Enjolras head down and cheers start up around him. 

Apparently it’s not very hard for Enjolras brain to shut off completely once he starts; he can’t think of anything except the grains of salt that scratch against his tongue, and the burning heat of Grantaire’s skin. Straight afterwards, the shot comes sliding down Grantaire’s chest and starts to pool in his bellybutton, and Enjolras instinctively moves to drag his tongue up the length of Grantaire’s chest.

His mouth is hot with tequila, and it charges down his throat and feels like it’s corroding him from the inside out, and all the while he’s mapping out the bumps and ridges of each of Grantaire’s muscles. And he doesn’t know whether it’s all those drinks catching up with him at once or if something else happening here and now, but Enjolras feels dizzy with heat and can’t make out the buzz of sounds around him, can focus on nothing but trying not to bite down on the flesh underneath his mouth. 

There’s a moment where he looks up and catches Grantaire’s eye, just a split second where Grantaire seems to realise that it’s Enjolras moving up his body, and the humming sound that’s been building in his throat comes out in a groan, and Enjolras fights back a shiver when he hears it. 

Grantaire’s head is thrown back again; his eyes squeezed shut and a flush on his cheeks that dips below his neck. Enjolras has to cover Grantaire’s body with his own to get anywhere close to his mouth, and he can’t ignore the press of damp skin against his work shirt, or the way their hips touch and Grantaire twitches beneath him. 

Enjolras feels a warmth growing in his abdomen, and he rushes forwards to finish the task, his lips brushing against Grantaire’s as he goes for the lime. He both feels and hears another moan behind that small wedge of lime, and Enjolras finds himself springing up with it in his mouth and he backs away quickly, face absolutely _burning_.

He spits the lime out and turns away from Grantaire, refusing to even cast a glance back, and he stumbles over to Bahorel and Eponine in a daze. They’re both doubled over in laughter and Jehan is hiding his own with a hand over his mouth, but he still elbows Bahorel hard in his side. 

“Are you alright?” Jehan asks, peering at whatever godforsaken expression Enjolras is currently sporting.

Enjolras nods, trying to concentrate on Jehan’s face as he makes a mental count of how many drinks he’s had tonight, but his thoughts keep melting into disjointed and incoherent ramblings as his head is invaded by the sounds Grantaire had been making. 

It’s a real problem, and Enjolras is already freaking out a little. It’s as if they’re stuck on a loop and blasting through his ears, and every time he blinks he remembers how Grantaire was splayed out across the table, how his eyes had fluttered closed as soon as Enjolras started. 

And _oh_ _god_ , Enjolras’ jeans feel too fucking tight and his head is a foggy mess of all the worst (or best) things, and he excuses himself to rush to the bathroom and lean over a sink, his heavy breathing creating a mist over the mirror. He grips the edge of the sink with a vice-like strength, knuckles turning white as he tentatively allows himself to be flooded with everything he can recall of what just happened. 

He swallows around a lump in his throat, ignores the insistent press of his cock within his jeans, and he looks at himself in the mirror. It’s a total disaster, to be perfectly frank. His eyes are wide and his cheeks are pinker than he’s ever seen them, and anyone who looks at him would know that something is not right. 

Enjolras considers locking himself in a stall and taking care of it quickly before going back out there, but no sooner then the plan forms in his head does he feel entirely ashamed of himself. It would only make things worse, probably. 

He really fucking hopes Grantaire is too drunk to realise Enjolras is holed up in here with an inappropriate hard-on and thoughts that are bordering on X-rated ( _is that what he sounds like in bed… is that what he looks like when he’s being touched… is he loud or does he swallow his moans_ ).

Enjolras bangs his forehead on the mirror, feeling guilty for imagining these things about Grantaire, even if he doesn’t think he’s capable of thinking about anything else. He splashes cold water on his face and yanks off his tie, and he decides to just fester in his own embarrassment until he calms down and his fucking boner goes down. 

By the time he emerges, the rest of their friends have moved into the front room of the Musain and have taken up a new table next to Grantaire and Courfeyrac. Enjolras resists going over and heads straight for the bar instead, seeing Mushichetta untying the back of her little black apron. 

“Is your shift over?” Enjolras asks glumly, perching himself on a bar stool. 

The question is redundant; a girl about his age with dark skin and a long braid of black hair seems to have taken over from Musichetta already. 

“What do you want? A drink or a therapist?” Musichetta gives him a look of pity, and he suspects she’s seen the entire ordeal. 

“A drink that’ll make me forget that maybe I do need a therapist?” 

Musichetta sighs but disappears for a moment to mix him something, then returns with his drink and props herself up on the other side of the bar, resting her chin on her hands. 

“Jägerbomb. Drink up and tell me what ails you. As a bartender it’s half of my job to listen to you whine about how horrible your life is.” 

Enjolras eyes his drink warily before trying to knock it back in one go. He ends up gagging on the sharp aniseed taste before the Red Bull can chase it down, but he asks for another as soon as thinks his stomach can hold it. 

He gets through three of them before Musichetta can squeeze anything out of him, and Enjolras has resigned himself to his tragic fate, his head resting on the bar as he draws patterns in the mess of a spilt drink. 

“Look, I know this is about Grantaire so you might as well tell me. I promise you’ll feel better once you talk about it.” Musichetta hauls Enjolras upright with her hand fisted in his hair, and he scowls as the room spins violently around him and her face eventually comes into focus. 

“I told you, I’m not talking about it. It didn’t happen – nothing to tell.” 

“Well if you’re going to continue lying to yourself, as if that whole pornographic fiasco didn’t just happen, then I’m going to take away your special treatment and sit with my boys.” Musichetta crosses her arms and waits for Enjolras to change his mind, but he only grumbles something unintelligible and carries on sulking. 

He’s not lying to himself, Enjolras thinks; he’s just a bit confused. The alcohol probably isn’t helping, but it has dampened the fire that Grantaire seemed have set ablaze inside of him. 

However, without Musichetta to tell him about the gossip she’s picked up all day or the book she read this week, sitting at the bar alone becomes incredibly depressing. So not long afterwards, Enjolras carefully avoids where Grantaire and Courfeyrac are still fumbling around topless and he finds a seat among all his other friends.

When Enjolras dares to look over at Grantaire again he’s wobbling on his feet and letting Courfeyrac try to dress him.  _Try_ being the operative word, since Courfeyrac can barely keep himself upright as he wrestles Grantaire’s arms into his shirtsleeves. While Joly audibly fears for their wellbeing next to him, Enjolras allows himself to watch the two of them talk gibberish.

“I’m sticky—why am I sticky?”

“It’s fine, R, I’m sticky too.”

“But how am I so sticky? I feel like—like—very sticky.” 

Courfeyrac presses a finger to Grantaire’s mouth, dragging his lip down when he stumbles. “Shush.” And Enjolras is not staring; he’s not tracking the pull of Grantaire’s lower lip at all. 

As soon as Grantaire’s shoulders start shaking with laughter, Enjolras knows they’re about to go down. It takes less than five seconds for Joly to let out a yelp as Grantaire goes crashing to the ground, Courfeyrac instantly tumbling down after him. They’re tangled up in a heap, but it only seems to fuel their uncontrollable giggling. 

Against his will, Enjolras finds the whole thing sort of endearing. He wishes they weren’t quite so drunk – they’re supposed to be a serious political group – but after all the alcohol that’s gone down his throat tonight, he supposes he’s just as guilty. With his head spinning and loose limbs wobbling, it’s much easier to remember that they’re a group of friends before a group of angry students (if they’re even allowed to call themselves students anymore).

Bahorel is doubled over and his rumbling laughter knocks Enjolras’ train of thought aside, and he barely remembers what he was thinking about in the first place when he goes back to watching Courfeyrac and Grantaire.

“R, your hair is very—it’s soft—I like it,” Courfeyrac says as he pets it adoringly with clumsy hands, Grantaire’s face squashed against his neck. Softer, as though he’s trying to tell a secret, Courfeyrac adds, “R, we should—we should start a soft curls group. We can make t-shirts!” 

“But Courf your curls aren’t soft.” 

“How would you know?”

“Because they—oh they are soft!” And Grantaire can’t seem to extract his hand Courfeyrac’s hair now.

Jehan and Musichetta are cooing over the two of them, a squeal or two coming from their direction when Courfeyrac puts both hands on Grantaire’s face and briefly kisses him on the mouth. 

Enjolras’ stomach drops, his mouth suddenly very dry as his chest contracts. It’s the alcohol—it is definitely the work of those last few shots he hastily downed after walking away from Grantaire. So maybe that was a bad idea, but inhaling shots one after the other to drown out the sound of Grantaire’s moans that he couldn’t stop replaying in his head, had seemed like a wonderful plan at the time. 

Grantaire is laughing happily as he leans into Courfeyrac again—but they’re grinning so hard that mostly their teeth just knock—and their lips keep touching and Enjolras wants to do something but he doesn’t know what and the room feels stuffy and constricting. 

He’s dizzy with something he can’t name, but it’s not nice. And he feels awful because he should be glad that Grantaire is this happy when he’s usually so bitter and run ragged with this darkness, thinking that Enjolras doesn’t care or even notice. And seeing Grantaire like this _does_ make Enjolras happy—it’s not as though he enjoys seeing his friends unhappy. But the twisting of his gut, the blood rushing loudly in his ears—the inexplicable urge to pull Grantaire and Courfeyrac apart—is swallowing that feeling whole. 

Enjolras jerks almost a foot into the air when a hand clamps down on his shoulder. Combeferre stands up and he’s looking at Enjolras a little weirdly—at his hands actually, which must have clenched into fists at some point because his nails are digging into his palm. 

“I think I’m going to get these two a cab home,” Combeferre chuckles, and somehow Enjolras manages to smile and nod. 

“Yeah, that’s um,” he swallows around the lump in his throat and tries to concentrate on looking at Combeferre. “That’s probably a good idea.” 

He dazedly watches Combeferre as he hauls Grantaire and Courfeyrac up, positioning them on either side of him, each with an arm around his neck. In the back of Enjolras’ mind he is vaguely aware that he should be helping, but he still feels like someone spiked his drink and whacked him over the head. He doesn’t even know if he’s capable of standing up right now. 

He’s almost forgotten that he’s in the Musain with all these people until someone knocks his thoughts away again. It’s Jehan this time, flopping down next to him and asking if he’s feeling all right. 

Enjolras looks at his concerned expression and decides that it’s okay to let Jehan in a little—he’s good with feelings and things like this. 

“I fear I have made a grave mistake.” 

“Do you want some water?” 

Enjolras nods and silently watches Jehan reach for a jug on one of their tables. He takes the full glass that is held in front of his face soon after, and downs the whole thing as best he can. 

“So what’s this grave mistake? Anything to do with those Jägerbombs?” His smile is sweet and teasing, but clearly he knows that something is definitely wrong. 

“Oh—yes—Jägerbombs were a terrible idea. But not that—that came after. Probably made it much worse.” Enjolras can hear the slurring of every other word he says and half-cringes at the thought of how he must sound. “Jean—Jehan—I am very drunk. ” 

Jehan’s smile glitters as he laughs quietly, pouring out another glass of water. “I can see that. Now what’s this mistake?”

“Grantaire.” 

“What?” 

Jehan momentarily forgets what he’s doing and the glass overflows as he stares at Enjolras with undivided attention. Enjolras uses somebody’s abandoned scarf to wipe up the spill and Jehan chucks a handful of napkins onto the floor hastily. Then he’s staring at Enjolras again with that expectant look on his face. 

“What happened with Grantaire?” He asks carefully, and Enjolras can’t tell if he’s trying not to grin or grimace. 

“The body shots—I shouldn’t have done that,” Enjolras says quickly, and then gulps down some more water. “Mistake. Horrible mistake.” 

He burps without meaning to and slumps into Jehan’s side, letting Jehan gather him up into his arms. Enjolras curls up against Jehan’s chest and rests his head there, allowing his hair to be stroked back gently.

“I feel awful,” he mumbles into the wool of Jehan’s cable knit jumper.

“Don’t drink the water so quickly—and don’t feel bad about the body shots. Bahorel is very… persuasive.” Jehan shifts so that Enjolras can lay his head in his lap instead. “Besides, Grantaire certainly seemed to enjoy it,” he quips, touching a finger to Enjolras’ nose; and Enjolras can just imagine the waggle of Jehan’s eyebrows.

“It’s not that I—I don’t feel bad. I’m just very confused and my stomach is doing _things_ and I really don’t think he should have been kissing Courfeyrac,” Enjolras groans, and he’s about to start complaining about how Grantaire really shouldn’t be kissing anyone at all because he’s _Grantaire_ , when he backtracks. “W-what do you mean he enjoyed it?”

“Fucking hell, you’re even more clueless than I thought.”

Enjolras is so very lost and nothing is making sense so he’s just going to skip right past that. “Why would he kiss Courfeyrac? Do you think he likes Courfeyrac in more than a friend way?” 

Jehan snorts, saying, “Please – Grantaire only has eyes for one boy on this planet and it’s not Courfeyrac.”

“Grantaire likes someone?” Enjolras mumbles, his head feeling unusually like a carousel with different thoughts about Grantaire spinning around inside. He has a feeling Jehan doesn’t hear him though because he goes straight on. 

“Grantaire just kisses everyone when he’s happy-drunk—”

“He’s never kissed me.” 

Jehan’s hands still in his hair as he bends over to peek a look as Enjolras’ face. “Hmm?”

Enjolras frowns and throws an arm over his face.  “Grantaire and I—well we’re weird aren’t we—I mean it just feels different.” Enjolras honestly has no idea what he’s saying but Jehan appears to be listening, so he lets his mouth run. “If he kisses everyone—but he hasn’t even tried with me—well then there’s something wrong with me. I’m not—it’s just that— _fuck_.”

“Enjolras, what are you trying to say?”

“What if he doesn’t like me? Because I get it—I always say the wrong thing and upset him—but I really do like him. Underneath. He’s so—he’s special—but he wants us to think he’s not. And that’s not okay—I just want him to see that but he won’t let me and it’s frustrating.” 

Jehan hauls him upright and puts a hand on his cheek, his forehead wrinkled as he looks at Enjolras sympathetically. “Maybe you should save this for another time; you’re very drunk and confused.” 

“That’s the problem!” Enjolras whines loudly, and he’s so fucking confused that he feels like lying facedown on the floor and crying. “I thought he was going to kiss me. I don’t know if I want that. But he makes me blush and mix up words and act weird and it’s fucking horrible.” Enjolras is sure that ended on something halfway between a sob and a pout.

He didn’t even mention about when his palms tingle and his fingers feel numb around Grantaire, or the way his stomach does that stupid flippy thing every time Grantaire stretches and makes a humming sound like a pleased cat. 

Enjolras can’t be sure—everything is moving and his eyes won’t focus—but he thinks Jehan might be laughing at him. He tries to cross his arms angrily but ends up whacking the table edge and almost knocks the whole thing over.

Jehan reflexively reaches out to steady it, grabbing a hold of the jug of water that just missed going flying across the room. “Right, you’re going to have some more water and then you’re going home and straight to sleep. Alright?”

“I have to pee.”

Jehan rolls his eyes and pushes Enjolras off in the direction of the bathroom, and even as he stumbles forwards Enjolras can sense Jehan watching him go. It’s possible that he’s said too much – and either Jehan will keep his trap shut and text Enjolras lines of poetry until he does something, or he’ll blab to Grantaire (or to Feuilly, who will in turn blab to Grantaire) about how Enjolras might have a stupid, ridiculous, completely twisted _crush_. 

When Enjolras leaves the bathroom and goes back out, Jehan and Combeferre are having what looks like a private conversation. Except he’s sure that he hears one of them say his name, and Combeferre rolls his eyes fondly while Jehan hides a laugh with his hand.

Enjolras skulks over to them and crosses his arms – without breaking anything this time. “Can we go home now?” 

“Sure, get your things and we’ll go.” Combeferre claps Jehan on the shoulder and goes to find his coat and say his goodbyes.

Enjolras rummages around where he’s been sitting, looking for what he brought with him, except he can’t really remember what he brought in the first place. He finds his coat underneath Joly’s and Bahorel’s and only loses his balance once while trying to put it on. Thankfully his gloves are stuffed into his coat pockets, and he has absolutely no idea where he left his scarf but there’s a dark coloured one near where he was sitting, so he grabs it and winds it around his neck without giving it a second thought.

Jehan appears again, taking Enjolras’ hands into his as he says goodbye and to take care getting home. Then, pulling Enjolras in a hug he quietly says by his ear, “call me tomorrow and we’ll talk about Grantaire.” Jehan lets him go and laughs, fixing Enjolras’ coat where he’s done the toggles up wrong. “Well, on the off-chance that you remember.”

Everyone waves Enjolras off—Bahorel locking him in a bone-crushing hug and Mushichetta kissing his cheek with a laugh—and he meets Combeferre at the door and follows him out. Enjolras burrows his face into the scarf, silently rejoicing that it’s long and thick enough to cover half of his face if he puts his head down. 

“Can we get a cab?” Enjolras asks, trying to muster up the same puppy-dog eyes that Courfeyrac uses on Combeferre.

Combeferre looks at him and snorts. “Have you got money?” 

Enjolras considers this and groans, already tired of walking. Combeferre has already had to drag him out of the way of a post box.  “Can we get the bus?” 

“Enjolras it’s a ten minute walk.” 

After Enjolras tries to cross the road when there are cars coming from both directions, he can hardly blame Combeferre for insisting on holding his hand until they get home.

\----

Enjolras is altogether unsurprised that he wakes up feeling dizzy and nauseous, with his mouth tasting like something died in it. Unsurprised, but hating himself all the same. He fell asleep fully clothed to boot, only managing to kick his shoes across the room before passing out in a heap on his bed. It’s already well past midday, so he reluctantly drags himself out of bed to change into joggers and woolly socks.

When he goes to brush his teeth and catches sight of himself in the mirror, Enjolras flinches at his reflection. He looks _terrible_ , hair sticking up at odd angles and his eyes rimmed with red, his skin looking a little on the grey side. He splashes water on his face and heads downstairs, letting himself be reeled in by the faint smell of coffee.

“Ah, look who’s awake!” 

Enjolras stops dead in his tracks when he hears that voice, and his headache comes slamming back into him when he sees Grantaire sitting at the table between Courfeyrac and Combeferre, all three of them looking completely exhausted.

“What are you doing here?” Enjolras mutters, blinking a few times before he remembers what brought him down in the first place.

“Pleasure as always,” Grantaire says a little too brightly. “I slept with Courf.”

Enjolras’ finger flinches over the wrong button on the coffee machine and he screws the whole thing up, while Courfeyrac audibly chokes on his drink and splutters everywhere.

He turns around to see Combeferre giving Courfeyrac a firm smack between the shoulder blades, and he’s sporting a smirk that he can’t quite smooth out quick enough.

“What?” Enjolras’ head is fucking pounding now, his ears ringing and heart pumping into overdrive. He hates hangovers. He hates morning-afters. He hates whatever joke is being played on him. 

“What Grantaire _means_ ,” Courfeyrac says with narrowed eyes directed at Grantaire, “Is that he was too drunk to unlock his front door last night so he slept in my bed instead.”

“Oh.” Enjolras ignores the way his stomach is twisting its way into knots; if he thinks about it then he might actually throw up. He just needs to get some caffeine in his system. “Um, yeah okay.” Enjolras grabs for his coffee and takes a gulp of it – wincing at how bitter it is as it scalds his throat.

“Don’t worry, Courfeyrac didn’t even want to help me out of my jeans.” Grantaire takes a bite of an apple and, as an afterthought adds, “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Well I’m sorry that I was busy with my head in the toilet!”

Enjolras regains enough sense to put milk and sugar in his coffee, and he debates taking it up to bed with him to avoid any kind of questioning about a night he really doesn’t wish to try and remember. He makes his mind up when Combeferre holds up a plate of hash browns.

Enjolras takes the chair next to Grantaire and tries to ignore the fact that he’s sitting there in his boxer briefs.

Grantaire, however, decides to make it even harder by turning to face him. “You smell like my year eleven physics teacher.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I think you’re literally sweating out pure alcohol.” 

“Fuck off.” Enjolras kicks Grantaire in the ankle and wishes he’d changed his shirt this morning. 

“I don’t know how drunk I was last night but it must have been a new record,” Grantaire says much quieter, leaning in so that only Enjolras can hear. “Because I woke up thinking you did body shots with us, and I think I’d see you hang up a photo of Margaret Thatcher before you publicly lick alcohol off someone’s body.”

Enjolras thinks he’s really going to need that chat with Jehan today because Grantaire is laughing and legitimately appears not to remember this happening, and for some reason that makes it _worse_.

“Are you wearing my scarf?” Grantaire reaches out to touch the scarf that Enjolras hasn’t even bothered to take off since waking up. In the daylight he can see that it’s bottle green instead of black like his own scarf. 

“I lost mine last night.” It’s only a half lie, and Grantaire just shrugs. 

“Musichetta probably has it. Just keep mine until you get it back.” 

Without thinking Enjolras ducks his head and ends up dipping his nose into where the long scarf has been wrapped around his neck several times. It smells like Grantaire’s cigarettes and coffee, and underneath that Enjolras gets a hint of what must be Grantaire’s soap or deodorant. 

Enjolras really does feel sick now, and he has a horrible feeling that only half of it is the monumental hangover he’s sporting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has been late for various reasons that range from the fun to the not so wonderful, but i just thought i should say that updates will be a bit slower from now on because i've started my last year of school and everything is very hectic right now with uni applications etc ;n;
> 
> but never fear, everything is getting very exciting in the next few chapters!!! (i promise i'll give you a kiss soon heheh)


	6. one of your french boys

Enjolras must have fallen asleep while doing last minute work on his phone, because he wakes up to it vibrating incessantly from where it’s wedged between his chin and shoulder. He considers hurling the whole thing across the room before deciding he’s too tired and cold to actually extract his arm from the duvet.

He squints as the backlight comes to life and sees a barrage of new texts from Jehan. 

_[Jehan:] I need to beg a favour of you._   
_Ask Courf about it please – I have class most of the day!! xxxx_

_[Jehan:] It’s important, so don’t freak out pls._   
_If you act like a baby I will twist your arm until you cry xx_

_[Jehan:] Also tell Courf to come round after work ;)_

Enjolras grimaces and rolls over, burying his face in a pillow as he groans at the thought of what terrible thing Jehan is going to have him do. He knows it must be bad if Jehan is actually threatening him with the infamous arm-twist that gave him a sprain last year. 

Enjolras dozes off for a few more minutes, until his actual alarm goes off and makes him want to crawl into the depths of the earth. He only manages to tempt himself out of bed with a shower that he puts on the highest temperature setting before stepping inside. In the end he doesn’t want to get out, and the rush of cold air afterwards isn’t worth it at all. 

Enjolras’ work days are all a little bit different – he has his shifts at the museum which mostly stay the same, unless he has to cover someone else or make more time for urgent work at Amnesty. His volunteering placement is still going steady, and from the way things are going it looks as though he might well end up with a permanent position at the end of it. But he never knows how much time he’ll have to spend each day with the volunteering, and it’s decidedly more interesting than the museum work (where his rhetoric skills are quite honestly wasted on spewing the same shit daily about cultural treasures nicked from other countries).

Courfeyrac and Combeferre are already downstairs when Enjolras joins them. Courfeyrac appears to be eating half the entire contents of a box of poptarts for breakfast, and Combeferre’s rushing through a bowl of cereal since he probably should left about ten minutes ago. The television is switched on to the news, idly playing in the background while they properly wake up.

“Jehan texted me,” Enjolras says as he sits down at the table, still buttoning up his cuffs. Courfeyrac grunts in response, crumbs falling from his mouth. “He said to ask you about a favour. And for you to go over to his place later.” 

Courfeyrac pauses as his mind processes it, then he starts nodding frantically as he tries to speak around his poptarts, “It’s about Feuilly!” 

“What?” 

“Well you see, Jehan’s always over there modelling for them because Grantaire and Feuilly can’t afford life drawing classes in London.” He wipes the crumbs away from his mouth and off his lap. “They’re like a little arty trio, it’s adorable.”

Enjolras frowns and his stomach gives a feeble rumble. “What does that have to do with me?” 

“Well see, the thing is, Jehan’s got this really important essay due in soon and he’s working on it pretty much all the time. Only he promised he’d model today, and he really doesn’t want to go back on it.” 

Enjolras stares at him, having a feeling where this is going. “So he wants me to do it.” 

Courfeyrac fidgets in his seat and fiddles with his sleeve. “I mean he was just quite worried and upset about it, so I might have told him that I could convince you.” 

“What would you even do that?!” Enjolras says quickly, verging on a little hysterical. “You seriously want me to _model_ for Grantaire and Feuilly? No, absolutely not.” 

Courfeyrac’s eyes widen and he stutters as he tries to backtrack. “No—it’s not—just Feuilly! Yeah, uhm, Grantaire can’t make it.” 

Enjolras thinks it over. If it’s _just_ Feuilly….

Surely it can’t be that bad, he muses, and it’s hardly the worst thing he would consider doing to help Feuilly. He’s not exactly sure where he draws that line. There probably is no line. He really hopes it’s not as creepy as Courfeyrac likes to joke about. 

He really doesn’t want to sit around naked in front of Grantaire though, and the thought of having absolutely nothing to hide behind is a little dizzying. He’s been trying to avoid thinking too carefully about his drunken revelation at the Musain the other week (not that Jehan will allow him to forget entirely). 

“Are you sure Grantaire won’t be there?” Courfeyrac nods and Enjolras chews on the inside of his cheek contemplatively. “I guess it’s not too bad if it’s only Feuilly, it might not be that embarrassing.” 

Combeferre looks up and watches him with an amused raise of his eyebrows, and Enjolras feels himself going hot.

“Why are you _blushing_?” Courfeyrac asks, and then he bursts out laughing and almost falls off his chair. “Oh my god—you don’t actually have to get naked—your pants can stay on!” 

Enjolras glares at him and pushes away from the table in a strop, saying, “I hope you fall into a dirty puddle on your way to work.” Courfeyrac laughs even harder though, and Enjolras stomps out of the house without even having had a cup of tea. 

\---- 

Enjolras goes over to Feuilly’s straight after work, not seeing the point in stopping at his own home to change when he’s just going to end up out of his clothes again. He thought he’d be more apprehensive about the whole ordeal, but the longer he mulled it over, the more he realised that it’s really not a big deal at all. 

Enjolras doesn’t exactly strive to keep a perfect body; he only really filled out in college, after spending his school years being gangly and too tall and absolutely tragic at both football and rugby. After that he just didn’t have the time or see the point, and honestly the most exercise he does these days is sprinting for the bus and running up the steps of the underground when nobody is moving on the escalators. 

But even so, he knows he looks decent, and even if _he_ doesn’t see anything to write home about, he knows that other people maybe do. He lacks any solid experience in the world of dating and relationships and _definitely_ casual sex, but it’s not like he hasn’t had offers. 

So stripping down for one of his best friends really isn’t anything to worry about. 

This mentality lasts for all of two minutes. 

Feuilly opens the door and leads Enjolras inside, a pencil already stuck behind his ear and ethereal post-rock music playing from the back of the house. 

“Thanks for doing this—seriously—it’s really good of you,” Feuilly says with a smile. There’s dried ink splattered on his forearm and speckling his hands.

Enjolras shrugs and smiles back at him, not particularly paying attention as he follows Feuilly into the living room. “It’s not a problem, don’t worry about it.” 

Then Enjolras looks up and it’s like the walls start rapidly moving in around him. Grantaire is setting up a large easel with a wooden board on it, a pencil held between his teeth as his adjusts the height. 

Grantaire, wearing pyjama bottoms and the same ratty white t-shirt from the first time they met, has seen Enjolras and is breaking into a slow grin. This is the furthest from okay, Enjolras thinks, this is _completely ridiculous_ and there’s a possibility that he might actually pass out. 

“Enjolras, you’re here.” Grantaire straightens up and grins even wider, now twirling the pencil from his mouth in one hand. “Well then, undies off and on the sofa.” 

Enjolras feels like he’s standing in a sauna, a desert, the depths of a fucking volcano. His face is burning and he feels sick, and there’s nothing he can do but gape at Grantaire before his feet turn him around and carry him straight out of the front door again. 

Enjolras unlocks the door to his house with a shaky hand, and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Combeferre sitting in the kitchen. He looks up when Enjolras comes rushing in, and he can only imagine what he must look like because Combeferre suddenly looks worried and puts his book down. 

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you supposed to be at Feuilly’s?” Combeferre pushes his stack of books to one side and goes to make Enjolras a cup of coffee once he realises that he’s not getting a cohesive answer any time soon. 

Enjolras collapses into a seat breathlessly, and his throat is so dry that he’s sure anything he tries to say will just come out as a horrible croak. He sits there staring at his hands on the table, still trembling ever so slightly. He shoves them in his coat pockets so he doesn’t have to look at them. 

“Jesus, just tell me what’s wrong would you? I’m getting more than a little worried – your face looks like a tomato.” Combeferre sets a steaming mug down in front of him and drags a chair over next to Enjolras.

Enjolras takes a large gulp of coffee—wincing when something else _burns_ down his throat with something other than heat—and he looks at Combeferre’s wrinkled brow. 

“What did you put in this coffee?” 

“Whiskey. Now out with it.” 

Enjolras didn’t even know they had whiskey in this house. Then he remembers the expensive stuff Marius gave them when they moved in. He half-drains the mug, ignoring the pain that sears on his tongue and throat from the fresh coffee, just so the whiskey doesn’t go to waste. 

“I just—oh my fucking god—I’m going to kill them,” Enjolras splutters, already feeling a warm buzz seeping into his limbs. 

“ _Who_?” 

“Courfeyrac! Jehan! They’re both – they’re terrible people!” 

Enjolras fully understands that his mouth is not entirely working, but Combeferre seems to be latching on all the same (and god bless their ability to converse without words). 

“Enjolras, just tell me what happened at Feuilly’s.” But Combeferre looks as though he already has an idea. 

“Grantaire was there!” Enjolras puts his head in his hands and groans. “What were they thinking—Grantaire was there and he shouldn’t have been and it was weird—Ferre, he told me to take my pants off!” 

Combeferre just snorts and reminds Enjolras that he said he would have gone pantsless if Feuilly had really wanted him to.

Enjolras’ head shoots up as he wails, “IT’S NOT THE SAME, THAT’S FEUILLY!” 

Combeferre rolls his eyes and tells Enjolras to drink up, patting his shoulder in sympathy (fake or not, Enjolras can’t really tell). 

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you know.” Combeferre takes his empty mug away and stands by the sink, rinsing it out. “But don’t you think that maybe it’s time you did something about… well, Grantaire.” 

It’s not a question; it’s a nudge. It’s a polite shove in the right direction. Only it doesn’t feel like the right direction – it feels like walking straight off a cliff. 

“Can we not do this?” 

“Enjolras, you can’t keep pretending it’s not—”

“Actually I can, and I think that’s what I’ll do,” Enjolras snaps, but he instantly feels guilty about it. “Sorry.” 

Combeferre sighs and turns around to look at him sadly. “Well you should go over there and tell Feuilly you can’t help anymore. Don’t be rude.” 

Enjolras begrudgingly admits that he’s right, and he does feel another pang of guilt when he imagines Feuilly just waiting there, wondering what the hell is wrong with him. 

He goes back over and finds the door still unlocked from when he’d left. Feuilly and Grantaire are both sitting atop the kitchen counter when he comes inside, and there’s a bottle of wine between them that Grantaire pauses in taking when he sees Enjolras. 

He just stands there like an idiot, unmoving and silent, quite unable to look at either of them. Feuilly clears his throat, and then hops down off the counter. 

“I’m just going to er, pop out for a cigarette,” Feuilly says slowly, then disappears out the front of the house. 

Grantaire stares at his dangling feet, and rubs at the back of his neck as he tentatively says, “Sorry about earlier. I was just pissing about, it was a joke.” He looks up, eyes settling on Enjolras’ face with a gloomy kind of dullness. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” 

And there goes a _third_ wave of guilt to make itself at home in Enjolras.

“It’s okay—I just—I thought it would only be Feuilly,” Enjolras says quietly. 

Grantaire frowns, his head tilting a little. “Didn’t Jehan tell you that I’m working on a commission?” Enjolras shakes his head. “That’s why we couldn’t use Bahorel instead—he’s too bulky—well that, and he’ll just dick around.” 

Enjolras feels a new blush creep up on his cheeks, a twinge of embarrassment circling around his veins as he tries to think of something to say. “Courf said that you wouldn’t be here. I was surprised – that’s all.” 

Grantaire jumps down from the counter and nods slowly, once again refusing to look at Enjolras. “Well I can leave if you want, I’m sure Feuilly would still like to draw you,” he says flatly, and Enjolras hates the way he’s shrinking in on himself all of a sudden. 

“I—no—I don’t want that.” 

“Oh?”

Enjolras sucks in a deep breath and tries to shrug nonchalantly, but he can’t hide the trace of terror that’s still coursing through him. “Where do you want me?”

Grantaire lets out a rush of breath, then smiles, looking up at Enjolras as though he can’t quite understand him. To be fair, Enjolras doesn’t really understand himself these days.

“Reclining on the chaise please.”

Enjolras turns around and sees the chaise lounge that sits in the middle of the room, and wonders how he failed to notice it before. It’s old – a little bit ratty, but the paisley upholstery and dark brown wooden frame still has some charm. 

“Where did you get this?” Enjolras asks curiously, taking his coat off and tossing it onto the sofa that’s been pushed up against the wall with the rest of furniture. 

Grantaire, apparently on his way out to retrieve Feuilly, shouts from the hallway in the front. “We borrowed it from one of Feuilly’s trader friends in Spitalfield!” 

“Although I’m hoping he’ll forget about it – it’s too nice to give back,” Feuilly says as he strides back into the room. 

They both avert their eyes and politely go about setting up paper on their easels and straightening them out while Enjolras begins to strip down. 

It’s now that Enjolras really thanks Combeferre for slipping all that whiskey in his coffee, because without it he doesn’t think he’d be able to pull his tie loose and unbutton his shirt with such ease. And it _is_ easy, with warmth flowing just beneath his skin and the gentle spinning inside his head, and he barely notices as the white shirt falls to the floor and his trousers pool at his feet. 

There’s a moment where he catches Grantaire looking – a piece of graphite held between his fingers in the air from where he’s frozen in his tracks, apparently distracted by what Enjolras is doing. His lips are parted, just a little, and Enjolras also stops. His pulse picks up slightly, his own fingers flexing by his side as Grantaire remembers himself and quickly looks away again. 

“Um, just lie on your back when you’re ready,” Grantaire mumbles from behind his easel, and Enjolras can’t see him at all now. It makes him grumpier that it should. 

Enjolras toes his shoes off and steps out of his trousers, and moves over to the chaise. There are a couple of cushions that he props himself up against, his head tipped back against the arm of the chaise as he tries to find a comfortable position. He ends up with one leg bent at the knee and an arm behind his head, the other half-draped across his stomach. 

“Is this okay?” Enjolras asks, because Grantaire still hasn’t emerged from behind his shield. If he’s going to do this he wants to do it properly. 

He sees Feuilly nod and hum his approval, but Enjolras waits for Grantaire to come out of hiding. 

“I—uhm.” Grantaire blinks, his sentence going unfinished as his eyes rake over Enjolras’ body spread out across the chaise. Enjolras really regrets wearing the red boxer briefs today because they’re probably making his blush look a hundred times worse than it already is. 

Grantaire hesitantly gets off his stool and stands to look over Enjolras again. His expression says he is trying to remember as much of this as possible, and Enjolras can’t help but shiver at the feeling that he’s being committed to memory. Especially like this, by Grantaire. 

He tries not to read too much into it. It won’t do him any good at all. 

“That’s great, you look great. Just uhm—” Grantaire steps over to Enjolras and extends a hand, before looking to Enjolras for permission, “do you mind?” 

Enjolras nods, holding his breath as Grantaire’s fingers gently curl around the underside of his knee, his palm spread out across the back of his thigh as he pushes Enjolras leg back a little bit further. 

“You look perfect,” Grantaire says softly, before he instantly goes pink enough to match Enjolras and fists a hand in his hair. “I mean— _shit_ —please do not listen to anything I say ever.” 

Feuilly is quietly sniggering into his sleeve as Grantaire sits down again and shoots him a look. Enjolras sees them both begin drawing, so he tries to relax and listen to the music that’s coming from Grantaire’s laptop in the corner. He focuses on the quiet scratching of pencils against thick paper, of Grantaire humming under his breath and Feuilly smudging his markings with the pad of his thumb. 

He stares at what he can see – the tapping of Grantaire’s feet and the look on concentration on his face whenever he comes out from behind the easel to look at Enjolras carefully. 

There’s a smudge of charcoal on his jaw that Enjolras keeps thinking about. 

Enjolras fights the urge to fidget and mutters, “I’m not good at sitting still for a long time.”

Grantaire snorts and his arm moves in a blur. “Tough, you’ll have to. It’s just this once – after I get the studies done I can start the final piece.” 

“What’s the commission?” 

Feuilly perks up and turns to look at Grantaire with a grin. “Yeah Grantaire, what’s the commission?” 

Grantaire grumbles something inaudible at Feuilly and stops drawing. “Uh, just some piece for a pricey restaurant in SoHo. She wants something sort of—Grecian—with a modern feel to it. I’m not sure where it’s going yet exactly – she pretty much gave me free reign.” 

“You told me that she wanted a naked Adonis type thing,” Feuilly pitches in smugly, and Grantaire makes a choking sound before throwing a putty rubber at him. 

“Fucking hell, shut _up_ you _prick_.” 

Enjolras is still stuck somewhere on naked Adonis. “It’s alright that I’m not, you know, actually naked, right?” 

Grantaire is out from behind his easel again and bites his lip as he takes Enjolras in with as much concentration as the first time. “I can omit your rather _racy_ underwear in the final piece,” he says with a small smirk, and _that’s_ the Grantaire that Enjolras is used to being around, not this reserved, quiet thing. “Of course it’ll be very tasteful, you have nothing to worry about.” 

“Right,” Feuilly scoffs, and Enjolras feels as though his skin is rapidly shrinking. It’s like he’s lying there festering in his own heat, the curling fingers of something that might be longing digging into the base of his spine, pulling at his insides and leaving a fire in their path. 

It doesn’t get any easier, but the conversation eventually becomes less stilted and awkward. Enjolras tries not to move too noticeably—Grantaire whines at him every time he tries—and by the end of it his arm has fallen asleep and he has pins and needles in one knee. Feuilly leaves after an hour to meet Bahorel at whatever grimy pub Eponine is currently picking up shifts at. 

Grantaire stays, filling up sheet after sheet of paper, pages and pages of a sketchbook covered in delicate details that he sits right in front of Enjolras for. It must be another hour when he finishes, and his fingertips are black with charcoal, a smear of white on his thumb from the chalk he’d been using for highlights. There are watercolour studies spread out across the kitchen counters while they dry, pencil shavings littering the floor, and the wine Grantaire was sharing with Feuilly earlier is drained to the last drop. 

Enjolras may have accepted a glass. In hindsight, it was probably not the best idea after his spiked coffee. Now, as Grantaire puts the kettle on and tries to tidy some of his things away, Enjolras feels dizzy with a plethora of unfamiliar feelings. 

Only the worst part is they’re _not_ unfamiliar; they’ve been making his life impossibly complicated for months now, and Enjolras has only just come to terms with what they are. It’s the powerful urge to touch, creeping through his fingers and leaving him with twitching hands or clenched fists. It’s the light-headedness when Grantaire smiles at him, as if he’s the only person in the universe at that moment. It’s the hot desire that makes itself well and truly known in Enjolras’ sheets, the force behind the dreams that have him waking up flustered and annoyingly turned on. 

Enjolras gets up from the chaise, desperately needing something to do, and wanders about the room to look at Grantaire’s work. 

It’s good—more than good—it’s _stunning_. Enjolras has seen doodles left on napkins in the Musain and little comics on scrap pieces of paper (or the backs of Enjolras’ hand outs and notes), and he’s seen fast sketches done in biro that capture all of their friends’ faces in the middle of a belly-aching laugh, a coy smile, or in Enjolras’ case, a narrow-eyed scowl. But he’s never seen Grantaire produce anything like this. 

It shouldn’t come as a surprise – Grantaire finds half of his income from paid commissions, so he must be talented. But it’s the sort of thing that can’t be imagined until it’s put in front of you. Grantaire is rummaging around the kitchen and probably very deliberately ignoring the attention that Enjolras is showing his work.

The charcoal pieces show Enjolras in stark black and white, cast in shadow by the quickly darkening light of the room, with the side of his face illuminated by the large lamp in the corner of the room. There are watercolours that bathe his skin in fuchsia and violet and tangerine from the setting sun that leaks in from outside through the glass kitchen doors. Sketches done in soft pencils that catch every sweep and curve of his body, the sharp edges of his bone structure, the subtle movement of his hair and the fall of each curl. 

Enjolras feels his chest tighten, and for a moment it’s like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room and it’s filling with water and he can’t come up for air. But then Grantaire is by his side again, nudging his shoulder gently with his own, holding a cup of tea out to him with a sheepish half-smile. 

He breathes again, and the air has a new taste, a new feel, and it’s never been so difficult or wonderful before. This whole thing is a disaster waiting in the sidelines, Enjolras is sure of it, but he doesn’t have it in him to pull away and pretend everything is as normal as it ever was. 

“They’re just studies. The final thing will look a lot better,” Grantaire says, scrubbing a dirty hand over his face. There’s a streak of graphite dust that blackens his cheek.

Enjolras frowns at Grantaire and turns to face him. “Are you insane? These are amazing.” 

“Are you joking?” 

“Why would I—fucking hell—they’re _really_ good.” Enjolras takes a sip of his tea, and then looks at the label. “Why do you have cranberry and raspberry tea? I clearly remember you saying, ‘I hate fancy fucking poncey fruit teas that cost more than a good spliff’.” 

Grantaire laughs, raising his eyebrows as he grins behind his mug. “The fact that you remember that word for word is worrying.  But if you must know, they’re Jehan’s. He’s always over here and insists on stocking our kitchen with your beloved fruit and herbal teas.” 

Enjolras doesn’t ask Grantaire if he knew cranberry and raspberry is his favourite. 

“Are you going to put some clothes on?” Grantaire asks, a frantic look in his eyes as he glances over the pile of Enjolras clothes.

Enjolras drinks half of his tea before he starts to get dressed again. He’s in the middle of buttoning his shirt when Grantaire interrupts, still gathering up all of his things. 

“Are you doing anything on Saturday?” 

“Not that I know of, though I’m sure Courfeyrac has a more than a few ideas.” Enjolras watches Grantaire fumble with his sketches, dropping a few as he tries to straighten them out. 

“It’s just that, uh, there’s this band playing in Hoxton and I thought you might, well I’m not really sure what you like because you’ve never said, but they seem like your sort of thing.” Grantaire looks up at Enjolras briefly, only for a second, then resumes speaking so quickly that Enjolras fights to understand a word he’s saying. “Their songs are all political and shit and it’s right up your street. They’re sort of like the 21st century version of The Specials bashing what Thatcher did to the towns and jobs, and they’ve got that whole thing going like The Clash with their lyrics, making politics accessible to the people affected.” 

“Grantaire?” 

“Yes?” 

“I have no idea what you are saying.” 

Grantaire looks up again, slightly wide-eyed and flustered. “Well I was thinking of seeing them on Saturday, and I was – well I thought maybe you’d like come, or something.”

Enjolras’ hands still at the last button of his shirt; he really doesn’t know what to say. What was that – a proposition? A _date_?

“Shit, you’re going to think—Bahorel and Feuilly are going too—so it’s not a date, or anything. You won’t be stuck with me all night, if that’s what you’re worrying about. "Grantaire laughs nervously, then looks as if he’s about to call the whole thing off. 

“Yes.” 

“What?” 

“Sure, I’ll come.”

It’s not a date. Enjolras is ignoring the uneasy flop his stomach gave at that. Instead he’s taking in the massive grin on Grantaire’s face as he starts laughing again, quickly hushing himself as he collects his things with a renewed vigour. 

_It’s not a date._


	7. hoxton square

It’s Friday when Enjolras stops by the hospital where Combeferre volunteers part-time. He takes a long break for lunch and splashes out on a cab over there, and he manages to lure Combeferre away with the promise of food that isn’t lukewarm and from the hospital’s cafeteria. 

Enjolras’ not-date with Grantaire is tomorrow, and to put it bluntly, he’s nervous. He doesn’t know what to wear, what he’ll say, how to act, and for the first time in his life he’s worrying about his _hair_ of all things. 

“Well it is looking a little long,” Combeferre muses, pouring himself another cup of tea. 

There’s no way in hell that Enjolras is getting a haircut today – it’d be _asking_ for a disaster. “I’m not here to talk about my hair,” he mutters eventually, and Combeferre gives him a Look. 

“Obviously. So are we going to talk about why you _are_ here?” 

Enjolras picks at his plateful of pasta bake with his fork, trying to think up the least embarrassing way to go about this conversation. “I know that you know, can you stop torturing me?” 

“You’re right, but that’s not the point,” Combeferre sighs. Enjolras is glad he can’t see the softness in Combeferre’s eyes right now. “If you can’t admit it to yourself, and you can’t admit it to me, how on earth do you think you’ll admit it to the person who actually counts?” 

Enjolras’ stomach sinks and he doesn’t feel all that hungry anymore. “I don’t know what to say – I don’t even know where to begin.” 

“Just tell me what’s on your mind, the first thing you can think of.” 

“I like him more than I should,” Enjolras says quickly, and as soon as the words have left his mouth he feels his face heat up. He doesn’t look at Combeferre. 

“And by _he_ you mean—” 

“Grantaire, obviously – you could at least try to be _slightly_ helpful about this,” Enjolras snaps, and now he has to look at Combeferre because he feels bad. “I like Grantaire and I don’t know how long this has been happening because I’m not sure if anything has changed, but it feels different. _I_ feel different.” 

Combeferre smiles and stirs his soup with a smug kind of satisfaction. “There we go.” 

Enjolras scowls at him, but he can’t ignore the weight that has been lifted from his chest from saying that out loud. It no longer feels like there’s a bruising pressure crushing his sternum, and it’s as if a fraction of it has just been cast away. “I—I think about him too much and he’s distracting and frustrating and I’ve never felt so volatile in my life. Every time I’m around him I just – I feel like I’m balancing on a thread.”

“It’s called being—”

Enjolras honest to god reaches across the table and stuffs a bread roll into Combeferre’s mouth before he can finish that fucking sentence. “Don’t you _dare_.” Enjolras decides to just tell him, before anything worse can happen. “He asked me on a date.” 

The roll falls out of Combeferre’s mouth, leaving behind his slacked jaw and wide, excited eyes. “ _What_?” 

“Except it’s not a date. He said it’s not a date. I don’t know.” 

“How can it be a date if it’s not a date?” Combeferre asks, and Enjolras gives him a sour look. 

“Well it _sounded_ like a date but then he got all freaked out and assured me it’s not. Bahorel and Feuilly are going to be there too.” Enjolras slumps over the table and rests his chin in his hand. “God, what if he doesn’t even like me like that?” 

Combeferre chokes on the tea he’d been sipping and spills it down his chin as he stares at Enjolras incredulously. “Is this a conversation that we are actually having?” 

Enjolras carries on speaking as if he hasn’t heard anything. “Alright, so maybe I wanted it to be a date – but what if this is some kind of divine sign that I should find a way to get rid of my feelings before they wreck me even more?” 

“I am very close to strangling you with my napkin right now.” 

“But he invited me to come out with _him_ – he didn’t even mention Bahorel and Feuilly until afterwards, and even then he just said they’re be there. They’re not coming _with_ us – does that mean anything at all?”

Combeferre looks as if he’s about to pop a vein in his forehead and Enjolras stops talking instantly. “It means that Grantaire asked you out before getting scared and trying to make it look like a thing between friends,” he says very slowly, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Oh my god, crushes make you stupid.” 

“It is not a _crush_!” Enjolras retorts indignantly, his eyes narrowed.

“Fine! Being in love with someone makes you completely stupid.” 

Enjolras feels like he just got punched in the gut, and he needs a moment to swallow and breathe. “That’s ridiculous. And you know what, I really can’t go on this… whatever it is.” 

“Why?” 

“Because….” Enjolras pushes the food around on his plate, feeling utterly embarrassed about even having to _have_ this conversation, be it Combeferre or not. “Well Feuilly and Bahorel are going with a couple of girls from the Musain, so it’ll just be me and Grantaire on an awkward not-date.” 

Combeferre hums and strokes his chin in a way that suggests he’s been spending far too much time with Courfeyrac. “It doesn’t have to be awkward. You two have hung out before. Aren’t you always on the roof with him?” 

Enjolras’ eyes dart up to stare at Combeferre. He hadn’t realised that Combeferre or Courfeyrac knew about his chats with Grantaire outside their windows. He’s not _ashamed_ , but it’s not as if he’d intended on bringing it up in conversation. It had always seemed like a private thing – a secret between just him and Grantaire (and Eponine on occasion). 

“That’s not the same,” Enjolras mumbles, thinking about how they would be alone together the entire night once Bahorel and Feuilly inevitably pulled. All the other times they’ve gone out it’s been with the entire group, or at least part of it, and Enjolras has always had someone else to run away to. 

Combeferre considers him seriously, before a small smile appears on his lips. “You really do want it to be a date, don’t you? That’s why you don’t want to go now.” 

Enjolras looks helplessly at Combeferre and bites down on the inside of his cheek, a frown creasing his forehead. “I honestly have no idea what I want anymore.” 

\---- 

Enjolras corners Courfeyrac as soon as he gets home from work, barely waiting for him to get through the front door before he advances. 

“Jesus, you’re all over me like a bad rash,” Courfeyrac says, shoving Enjolras away lightly with a grin. “What do you want?” 

“A favour.” 

Courfeyrac’s eyebrow raises and he looks intrigued as he shrugs out of his coat. “Go on.” 

“The thing is, you sort of owe me, don’t you? After you and Jehan planned that terrible little fiasco with Feuilly and _lied to me about Grantaire_.”

Courfeyrac at least has the decency to look a little sheepish, and he squeezes around Enjolras in the hallway and flops down on the sofa in the living room. “I told you I was sorry!” 

Enjolras waves a hand in Courfeyrac’s face, shushing him immediately. “The point is, he invited me to go to this gig with him and I need you to come with me.” 

Courfeyrac looks at Enjolras blankly, as if he’s waiting for the catch in this plan. When Enjolras continues to watch him expectantly, Courfeyrac’s eyes widen and he jabs a finger at Enjolras’ chest. “No – don’t even think about dragging me into this! I’m trying to _help_ you, not make things even worse!” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and sits down next to Courfeyrac, taking his hand between his own and pressing his forehead against Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “ _Please_ , Courf! Don’t you think you owe me this _one_ little thing? _Come on_ ,” Enjolras pleads, and Courfeyrac looks like he is going through one hell of an internal struggle.

“Don’t look at me like that – I hate it just as much as your mother does.” 

Enjolras pouts even more and draws his eyebrows together, looking at Courfeyrac with his best sad puppy expression. “I’ll even let you and Jehan have the house for a night.”

“With Combeferre gone too?” 

Enjolras wrinkles his nose but begrudgingly nods. “Fine, I’ll get Combeferre out of the house too.”

“Alright, deal.” Courfeyrac grabs Enjolras by his tie and yanks him forwards until they’re practically nose-to-nose. “But I swear to all things holy and beautiful, if this backfires I refuse to be held responsible and be caught in the middle of it!” 

It only takes a kiss to Courfeyrac’s cheek for him to forget that he’s trying to be the responsible one, and instead he starts incessantly gushing over Enjolras and his _newfound, gigantic crush._

The thing is, Enjolras hadn’t counted on Grantaire’s reaction making him feel so downright _guilty_. 

When Saturday evening comes around and Grantaire is on their doorstep, Enjolras hasn’t even considered that Grantaire might feel offended or _hurt_. But that’s the only thing Enjolras can think of when Courfeyrac is anxiously standing in the hallway, explaining that Jehan had to cancel a date and Enjolras thinks he’s too lonely not to take pity on. 

Grantaire’s expression is unreadable for a second, before his face falls and smoothes out to a blank canvas. He laughs when Courfeyrac makes a half-hearted attempt at a joke, but the sound is stilted and Enjolras hates it. 

“Bahorel and Feuilly got drinks with the girls earlier, so they’re meeting us there,” Grantaire says, flashing a smile that is all too practiced at looking natural. 

The atmosphere is unbearable. They get the bus to Hoxton and sit at the back, Courfeyrac in the middle, desperately trying to salvage the mess Enjolras has made. Even Courfeyrac is defeated by it, and they spent most of the journey in uncomfortable silence.

The building Grantaire guides them to is a bar-slash-restaurant-slash-music-venue, and the entrance leads them into an area that joins all three together, filled with small round tables and leather sofas. There’s already a bustle of people mingling and drinking, and Enjolras looks around for a free table. 

“I need a drink,” Grantaire mutters, and he doesn’t waste a second in finding the bar. 

Courfeyrac turns on Enjolras hotly as soon as Grantaire is out of earshot. “As one of the most optimistic people you know, I feel obligated to tell you that this is definitely the dumbest thing you have ever done,” he hisses, looking over his shoulder to where Grantaire is leaning on the bar. 

“Will you just _stop_?” Enjolras says with a bite, but he’s distracted by the way the bartender is bending down to talk right into Grantaire’s ear. “Let’s be real, I’ve done much worse things,” he mumbles eventually. 

“Maybe I should leave,” Courfeyrac sighs, looking towards the door with a worried frown.

“No, don’t—” 

“Enjolras, what are you so afraid of?” Courfeyrac grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him a little, looking utterly frustrated and confused. 

“I – I don’t know.” 

Enjolras sees Grantaire looking up at the bartender from under his eyelashes, a smirk pressed against the rim of his glass. The other man watches the bob of Grantaire’s adam’s apple as he knocks back what’s probably whiskey in one go. Enjolras forces himself to look away, and finds Courfeyrac looking at him with far too much concern. 

Enjolras swallows a lump in his own throat and wraps his fingers around one of Courfeyrac’s wrists. “I’m scared of so many things, Courf. I’ve got no idea what I’m doing,” he says quietly, and Courfeyrac’s grip on his shoulders turns into a bone-crunching embrace. 

“This isn’t a bloody revolution, you know. You can’t fight it and overcome your feelings with that wonderful brain of yours.” Courfeyrac’s words get lost in Enjolras’ hair, but he doesn’t think he’s held any of his friends this tightly for a long time. “Love is a scary thing and it doesn’t slow down for anyone, and if you think you can ignore this like you did with the girls in school and college – well you’re wrong. And you’re going to hurt more than just yourself.”

Enjolras pulls away gently and forces a smile. “This isn’t love.” 

Courfeyrac stares at him sceptically for a few seconds, then nods his head solemnly. “But it’s something, isn’t it?” 

Enjolras doesn’t need to say anything for Courfeyrac to know that the answer to his question is _yes_. Instead, Enjolras bumps his shoulder into Courfeyrac’s and says, “You’ve been spending too much time with Jehan. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you talk about love like that before.” 

Courfeyrac flushes a deep shade of pink and tries to shrug it off, fighting back a grin that is about to split his face in two. “Yes, well, spend enough time in bed with a poet and that’s what happens.” 

“Promise me you won’t make us all choose if you break up?”

Courfeyrac pinches Enjolras’ cheek and shakes his head at him. “Don’t worry your pretty little head; we love all of our politically charged, raucous children too much for that.” Courfeyrac is momentarily distracted, looking somewhere over Enjolras’ shoulder as he stands on his toes. “Speak of the devil – I’ve just seen Bahorel! I’m going to say hello – _you_ should go say something to Grantaire.”

Courfeyrac goes chasing after Bahorel and leaves Enjolras alone with his thoughts. He _should_ go talk to Grantaire, but he’s stubborn and irritated and a total fucking mess. It would be so much easier to find Feuilly instead and leave Grantaire to own devices; he’ll probably find him at the end of the night just by lighting a match in his general direction. It’s not like Enjolras hasn’t noticed that Grantaire’s drinking has been steadily increasing, and probably his drug intake on top of that. He’s not even sure how Grantaire is conscious half of the time. 

All the same, Enjolras finds the courage to sit down on the stool next to Grantaire and he orders a beer. There’s a phone number written across the back of a drinks coaster in front of Grantaire, a messy scrawl of _Nick – Hoxton Square_ just below it. 

“Bit early to be mixing drinks isn’t it?” Enjolras asks when Grantaire doesn’t acknowledge him. 

Grantaire, slumping over the bar on both arms with his head hanging down between his shoulders, turns to look at Enjolras briefly. “Why stop at whiskey, eh? Vodka lemonade’s just as good as a bottom shelf whiskey.” Grantaire smiles at him bitterly, and raises his glass like he’s making a toast before taking a long gulp. 

“Are you alright with Courf being here?” Enjolras says bluntly, and Grantaire laughs to himself, staring at the bottom of his glass. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Enjolras takes a deep breath to stop himself from snapping at Grantaire, who is apparently trying to be deliberately difficult. “Are _you_ alright then?” He’d meant to be tentative about it, knowing that Grantaire might jump down his throat at any minute. 

“Fan-fucking-tastic, as always.” 

“I don’t know why I even bother, _Jesus Christ_ ,” Enjolras mutters, but Grantaire still catches it, swivelling around on his stool to face Enjolras with sharp eyes. 

“Go on then, share with the class. How do _you_ think I feel?” Grantaire sneers, and Enjolras clenches his fingers around the neck of his beer bottle, willing himself to stay in control. _He’s not trying to start a fight here._  

“Melancholy—or angry—probably both.” 

“And of course you’re _always_ right,” Grantaire scoffs, and he drains the rest of his drink. 

Enjolras jumps to his feet, staring down his nose at Grantaire with his lips pressed tightly together. “You’re a real dick, you know that?” 

“You tell me enough times, how could I forget?” 

Right. _Love_. Courfeyrac and Combeferre are both talking out of their arses and Enjolras is never taking personal advice from them ever again. He stalks away from Grantaire, that scathing tone of voice still ringing in his ears; reminding Enjolras of all the less than savoury remarks he’s made to Grantaire in the past. It still doesn’t make sense though – how Grantaire can go from coy and embarrassed to absolutely _vicious_ in just a few days. 

Enjolras just wants to go home now. He wants to rant to Combeferre about how fucking ridiculous Grantaire has been and how very much he is _not_ interested in pursing anything with Grantaire. He wants to be in bed with a cup of tea, quietly fuming, and read until he eventually falls asleep and doesn’t have to think about it. 

But he can’t leave Courfeyrac after dragging him all the way here, and he doesn’t want Grantaire to know just how much he gets under his skin. So he winds his way through the bar and into a bigger room, the one where the band must be playing, and scans the place for Courfeyrac and Bahorel. When he sees them, Feuilly is there too, along with his and Bahorel’s girls tonight. 

The girl with blood-red hair—and Bahorel’s arm slung around her waist—points excitedly at Enjolras when he greets them. “I remember you!” She says, grinning. “I was at the Musain when you lot got completely smashed, and _you_ were the guy who did a body shot off Courfeyrac’s friend!” 

“Enjolras, actually.” His smile is twitchy at best, but the girl doesn’t seem to notice while she laughs with Bahorel. 

“I’m Alice, and this is Rosa.” A tall girl with short, black hair standing next to Feuilly gives Enjolras a nod and an equally friendly smile. 

Enjolras has never heard of the support band (not that he’d actually expected to know them), but Courfeyrac gets a round of drinks and they all watch from the side, chatting idly between songs. Ironically, hanging out with Bahorel and Feuilly and their dates is a hundred times less awkward than being with Grantaire, and for a moment Enjolras gets distracted with wondering what Grantaire might be getting up to now.

Something about Enjolras’ expression must be giving his thoughts away though, because Courfeyrac slings an arm around his shoulders and ruffles his hair, asking some question or another to bring him back into the conversation. When the focus shifts to Feuilly, Courfeyrac gives Enjolras a private half-smile and squeezes his shoulder. 

“Hey, weren’t you the guy who started those crazy protests at UCL?” Rosa says, squinting at Enjolras in the dim light. “In the middle of last year – the ones that were all over the news.”

Enjolras perks up a little at this, and he feels Courfeyrac’s excitement thrum through the hold he still has on him. “Yeah, that was me.” 

“It was a group effort,” Courfeyrac cuts in, puffing his chest out. “Our other friend, Combeferre, was heading it too.” Then he turns to Enjolras and says to him in a hushed voice, “I told you those photos looked good!” 

“I went to one with my sister, but we got kettled on Shaftesbury Avenue for five hours and she didn’t want me going to any others after that,” Rosa continues, and Feuilly is looking down at her with a smitten look on his face. 

“Yeah, we don’t have the best track record with kettling,” Courfeyrac snorts, and Enjolras catches him glancing at the white scar that wraps around his forearm. 

The support band is in the middle of packing up on stage, and new equipment is being brought out at the same time, so Enjolras takes advantage of the slot of time they’ve been given to talk properly. “At the last of those protests we were kettled in Trafalgar Square all day and a lot of people got hurt. Courf’s boyfriend punched a policeman in the face and got arrested.” 

“Coming from the guy who stole a policeman’s baton to beat him off with,” Courfeyrac smirks, and Bahorel punches Enjolras in the shoulder with a proud grin. 

They talk about those protests for a while longer, and tell the girls more about what they’re doing in the meetings at the Musain with Les Amis – that’s what they’re called now, Les Amis de l’ABC, courtesy of Joly after a few too many drinks one night. Feuilly and Rosa had disappeared on the pretence of getting another drink, but are more likely finding some mild privacy in a dark corner. The main band is about to come on – the reverb of their guitars already sounding from somewhere offstage for them to walk in on. 

They start off as they mean to continue – loud, angry, fast, and powerful. Enjolras likes them almost straight away, and he feels something unnameable rush through his fingers when he realises that Grantaire probably knew that would happen. The lyrics that sound over bone-shaking guitars are poetically furious and settle in Enjolras’ bones with forceful exhilaration, and he lets Courfeyrac push him into the middle of the crowd where everyone is jumping and shoving at each other with wild abandon. 

Enjolras gets lost in the mayhem, but a part of him wishes he had Grantaire next to him, dark curls falling into his eyes as he thrashes against the crowd and pumps his fist in the air, t-shirt sticking to him with sweat and lifting up to expose a strip of skin above his jeans, constant glances to Enjolras to see if he’s enjoying the music as much as he’d hoped he would. 

But Grantaire is still nowhere to be found and Enjolras has no idea who he might be sharing his secret smiles and snarky comments with. 

Bahorel and Alice have hung back a bit, staying together in a more subdued part of the room; Enjolras glances sideways and realises that he’s lost Courfeyrac, who has been swallowed up by the always-moving crowd around him. He’s alone for a few songs, and he appreciates the opportunity to get away from his own mind for once – so used to hearing the sound of his voice all through the day. He tries to empty his thoughts and let the music sink into the spaces left in his mind, wishing it would occupy all the places Grantaire seems to have taken up residence. 

Enjolras sees him in the middle of a song. 

He stops dead in his tracks (and gets punched in the side of his head for not paying attention to his surroundings). Grantaire is slinking through the audience, weaving in and out of the crowd with a catlike grace, holding a plastic cup of beer that sloshes around with every movement. He’s like nothing Enjolras has ever seen before – or rather, has ever taken the time to notice. 

Enjolras just wants to forget him, but Grantaire looks beautiful and otherworldly as he rocks his head and sings along with his eyes shut, a lopsided smile on his lips. He wears intoxication like a new jacket, like a war medal that he deserves to show off to the world, and _fuck_ does he make it look good. And it goes against every rational fibre in Enjolras’ being to think that, because he hates Grantaire’s lifestyle and he hates it when he’s drunk and high and the devil’s most irritating advocate. 

Grantaire is by no means magazine-spread beautiful – he’s the beauty that glows eerily in a squalid, dark night. He’s self-destruction made into a man, a man that has learnt how to use his hips and the curve of his back to get what he needs. He’s the dangerous kind of sadness that ruins people, trying to hide it behind deep blue eyes that are always darker than they should be, glassy and always too much pupil. He’s everything that Enjolras knows to stay away from, but can’t actually bring himself to do anything worse than spit a few disdainful words at. 

He’s about to press forwards and get to Grantaire, knock the beer from his hand and do something he’d probably regret tomorrow morning. But he sees something that he didn’t before, and it’s a girl trailing behind Grantaire with her fingers holding on to one of his belt loops. She’s gorgeous looking; Enjolras can see that, with blonde hair that falls in loose curls just below her shoulders and full lips that whisper into Grantaire’s ear. 

A stab of jealously makes itself known in Enjolras’ chest, making his heartbeat spike as he bites down too hard on the inside of his mouth, tasting the copper tang of blood. His hands twitch at his sides uselessly, and he just stands there watching them. It’s almost masochistic, how he doesn’t even let himself look away when Grantaire turns around to kiss her in a way that’s probably indecent for a public setting. 

Somehow it gets worse. This happens about the time Grantaire sees Enjolras, still pathetically frozen in place and suffering blows from every direction. Grantaire takes the girl’s hand and pulls her behind him as he makes his way over to Enjolras, a determined fervour now blazing in his eyes as he crosses the room. 

“You’re still here?” Grantaire asks, his eyebrows pulled together as he comes to stand in front of Enjolras. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” 

The band’s current song begins to slow to a close, and they stop having to shout themselves hoarse to be heard. 

Grantaire makes room for the girl with him, pulling her into his side and sliding his arm around his waist. Grantaire does a good job of making himself look at least vaguely composed – but Enjolras already knows how to read the signs that indicate Grantaire is thoroughly hammered, and more so than usual. He sways on the spot, almost toppling sideways when the girl presses herself closer to him. 

“We’re gonna get out of here,” Grantaire slurs. The heat in his eyes is gone now, and he stares at Enjolras with nothing but a strange deadness behind them. “Don’t wait up.” 

Enjolras tries to ignore the sting of those words, looking straight back at Grantaire. “Where are you going?” He doesn’t think he needs to ask, but he wants to make sure Grantaire doesn’t end up at another bar where he can drink himself into a coma. It takes a lot to truly fuck Grantaire up, and he’s very close to crossing that line. 

Grantaire’s mouth twists, and he steps into Enjolras’ space to lean up to his ear, his whisper coming like a sharp dagger. “I’m going back to a stranger’s house, we’re going to have a few drinks, we’ll _fuck_ , and then I’ll stumble home in the morning.” 

Enjolras shoves him away roughly, but the alcohol on his breath lingers in the air. Grantaire smiles at Enjolras, and it’s a poisonous shape on his mouth that makes Enjolras tense. 

“Is that alright with you, my fucking fearless leader?” 

Grantaire doesn’t wait for an answer though, he just laughs dryly and goes back the way he came, the blonde girl tucked under his arm again.

Enjolras doesn’t move, not when someone pushes him too hard and not when he gets shoved backwards; he just stands there. It’s Courfeyrac who finds him on his back in the middle of a riotous circle pit when the chorus of the next song kicks in, and Enjolras barely notices being hauled to his feet and dragged out. His temple throbs dully from when he’d been kicked at on the ground, but it’s nothing compared to warzone inside of his head. 


	8. christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is a time for family, and naturally Enjolras ends up evolving into something of a hermit in retaliation.

Before Enjolras knows where the time has gone, it’s rearing up to Christmas and it’s incredibly lonely. The universities have broken up for the holidays and everyone is away visiting their parents and seeing old friends. Jehan has already disappeared halfway across the country to the Prouvaire family home (and they’re all trying to ignore the fact that Courfeyrac is very jittery and extra clingy when he hasn’t seen Jehan for a week). Bossuet goes all the way up North with Joly for a while, and they squash together in a bedroom that hasn’t changed a bit since Joly left home; not to mention the mass of Joly’s brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles who are fully prepared to keep Bossuet forever after just a day. 

But Enjolras is at home and he’s feeling nothing akin to Christmas cheer. London is dark, dreary, bitterly cold, and lonelier than it has ever been. Courfeyrac only has to get a train and the underground to visit his parents, and he claims his mother has taken him hostage and refuses to let him leave until he’s eaten his own body weight in home-cooked food. Enjolras is possibly a _little_ jealous, but not enough to accept Courfeyrac’s offer of tagging along. Combeferre has also jogged on home; his older sister is down in London for one of her less than frequent visits, and they’re spending quality time together with the entire family.

Enjolras parents have called a few times. His mother had asked him to come home, assuring him that there is no bitterness between them despite what his father says. He can’t quite pull the wool over his eyes enough to believe her though, so he politely declines. She’s upset, and in turn it makes Enjolras feels horribly guilty, but he knows that his visiting would only make the rest of the family upset or angry. 

She calls again when he’s on his lunch break at work, and he somehow ends up promising to come for lunch on Boxing Day. He might bring Courfeyrac and Combeferre for moral support; no doubt it would make his mother doubly happy anyway. 

He hung up at least ten minutes ago, but he’s still staring at the phone in his hand, his contacts list open and scrolled down to _G_. He feels ridiculous, like this is some form of stalking and he should be ashamed.

Grantaire hasn’t said a word to him since the disaster that was their not-date at Hoxton Square. They’ve seen each other—of _course_ they have, it would impossible not to—but Grantaire has studiously ignored him and kept to himself at the back of the Musain during meetings, any arguments or sceptical comments silenced by numerous glasses of wine. Enjolras keeps finding his eyes drawn to the small round table that Grantaire has been occupying, set apart from the others—who push a few tables together to make a big square one they can all sit around—and not quite in reach of the light. 

That’s when Enjolras feels a stabbing pain in his chest: when he sees Grantaire hunched over in the shadows, a half-empty bottle of red wine acting as a paper weight for whatever he’s sketching or doodling. These days he’s not even drawing – just staring blankly at the markings on the table as Enjolras rattles on as usual. And it _is_ painful, because Enjolras has no idea what he’s supposed to have done to make Grantaire so angry with him all of a sudden.

What’s more worrying is that Courfeyrac seems to know more than he’s letting on, but he absolutely refuses to acknowledge this and tells Enjolras to _just talk to Grantaire_. As if that will actually help anything; Enjolras with his propensity to say the wrong thing at the very worst time, and his never-ending frustration with Grantaire and his track record of letting it get the better of him. Yeah, _what_ _a great idea._  

So Enjolras says nothing at all, and they go on pretending the other doesn’t really exist, and Enjolras gives up all hope that anything could or will happen between him and Grantaire. He’s resigned himself to the fact that maybe Grantaire doesn’t want the same thing as him – maybe Grantaire just messes with him because it’s fun, and he stares because he thinks Enjolras is nuts or stupid or both, and maybe he’s obsessed with Enjolras in a completely different way. 

Or maybe that’s just it – he’s obsessed with Enjolras but doesn’t actually want him. 

Enjolras shoves his phone back in his pocket; mentally kicking himself for letting his ego inflate to the point where he thinks someone is obsessed with him – someone who doesn’t even want to speak to him. 

He goes back to an empty house after work and eats a pint of ice cream while watching soppy Christmas films, despairing over the horrid cliché his life has suddenly become. He’s actually _pining_ – to the point where he’s feeling too sorry for himself to even intercept Grantaire on the roof anymore. To make things worse, everyone is busy with their own families, sitting around ornately decorated Christmas trees with their brothers and sisters, drinking brandy and cringing over vaguely racist uncles: meaning there’s nobody here to snap Enjolras out of this funk.

It’s rinse and repeat for four more days, and Enjolras purposely doesn’t take extra time off work for the holidays. It’s possible that he’s working more shifts and hanging back later, just to avoid crawling back into bed with takeout and Amnesty work spread out around him. It’s tragic, really. He could be hanging out with Feuilly and Bahorel—or even Eponine and Marius—but that would also mean being around Grantaire, and with significantly less people to around to maintain a shred of normality. 

So Enjolras keeps working right up until his boss practically forces him to go home at midday on the 23rd, and tells him not to come back until the 27th at the soonest. By that point he lets himself be forced out the door, because everyone is back in London again for a while and he might as well catch up with them all. Enjolras is strangely exhausted though, which is ridiculous because he’s barely being doing anything. But it turns out that catching up on sleep and not preaching to people in the middle of cafes and pubs actually wears him down a lot more than his usual schedule (Joly would probably tell him that he’s been spending too much time at work and volunteering, but Enjolras refutes that and is sure it’s just pent up energy inside of him turning to stone when he doesn’t give it an outlet). 

He comes home to find Courfeyrac has impulsively decorated the house, making it look slightly less bleak compared to the rest of the street. Even Grantaire, Feuilly, and Bahorel have made an effort – they’ve got dainty little reindeer figures in the window that light up, and lights hung up along the length of the roof that look like glowing icicles in the dark. 

Courfeyrac is rushing about the place with tinsel wrapped around his neck like a scarf, whilst Combeferre hangs little baubles and ornaments on a modestly sized fake Christmas tree, sitting in the middle of their coffee table. There’s a seafoam green coat folded over the arm of the sofa, and Enjolras knows it’s none of theirs because it’s a little on the fluffy side and has a long beige knitted scarf tucked inside of it. 

“Who’s here?” Enjolras asks, deeming it safe to step into the living room since Courfeyrac has gone sprinting up the stairs to fetch something from his room. 

Enjolras only sees Combeferre’s small smile before a pair of hands cover his eyes from behind and temporarily blind him. 

“Guess who,” a voice singsongs behind him, and Enjolras turns around to see Combeferre’s sister grinning up at him. 

“Marie, I didn’t know you were coming over.” 

She pulls him into a tight hug before holding him out at arms length to look him up and down carefully. “I insisted on Ferre showing me his first real house,” she says, casting her brother a fond look. “Have you grown or have I shrunk? You’ve never made me feel this short before,” she huffs, throwing herself down on the sofa with her head in Combeferre’s lap. 

“You just haven’t seen me in a while. How long are you staying?” 

Marie picks up the plate of mince pies on the table and balances it on her stomach as she takes one. “By some miracle I’ve managed to get two weeks off work – I think my manager fancies me.” 

“There’s something wrong with him if he doesn’t!” Courfeyrac shouts from the stairs, and he comes back into the living room carrying a cardboard box that says _KEEP AWAY FROM ENJOLRAS_ in permanent marker on the side. 

“Aw, are you still in love with me, Courf?” Marie croons from the sofa, and Combeferre flicks her nose. 

Courfeyrac shoots her a withering look and sets the box on the floor. “As _if_ – but you’ll be wishing you snapped me up when I was sixteen!” 

“That’s disgusting, Courf,” Enjolras gripes with a twisted expression, and he sits down on the other end of the sofa with Marie’s feet in his lap. “Why are you keeping a box secret from me?” 

Courfeyrac sits down cross-legged on the floor in front of the box and begins taking things out. “Me and Jehan went shopping a few weeks ago for his flat, and we mutually agreed that you would never let us all buy decorations for the house because you’d complain about commercialism and be a general Scrooge. So we did it without you and now you can’t veto it.” 

“He has a point,” Marie shrugs, stuffing another mince pie into her mouth. “Oh but the tree is my housewarming gift!” 

“We already had a housewarming. It was five months ago.” Enjolras continues to glare at Courfeyrac while he sorts different kinds of fairy lights into individual piles. 

“Mhm, I heard you found yourself a boyfriend. _That_ was a surprise.” 

“ _What_?” Enjolras shifts his glare to Combeferre, who looks away sheepishly and pinches Marie’s shoulder. 

“Oh wait, I forgot, he’s not your boyfriend. You’re just completely lovesick and pining over him but won’t say anything because you’re an emotionally constipated nutjob.” Marie rolls her eyes and bats Combeferre’s hand away, raising her eyebrows at Enjolras in a way that is begging him to even try to disagree. 

“I’m not emotionally constipated,” he mutters, picking at a loose thread on her coat. 

“Fine,” she sighs dramatically, “you’re just romantically constipated.” 

“Now I remember why I begged my parents never to have any more children – you’re the evil sister I never asked for.”

Marie clasps her hands over her heart and grins. “Well, Enjolras, I’m flattered! I always said the same thing about Ferre and look how nicely he turned out.” She reaches up to squeeze at Combeferre’s cheek and he rolls his eyes at her as he yanks her hand away. 

Only an hour later, Courfeyrac has managed to drape the entire house in strings of fairy lights and hanging decorations (which lose some of their appeal upon realising they’re being held up with sticky tape). Only Enjolras’ bedroom has managed to escape Courfeyrac’s hands, and that was only because Enjolras physically fought him off when he tried to force his way through the door. Enjolras will, however, admit that the little Christmas tree on the table _is_ a nice touch; especially with the small gifts from Marie and Combeferre’s parents sitting underneath it. 

They’re all sprawled across the living room when their phones chime simultaneously: a mass text sent to the entire group. It’s Joly, informing them that they are all officially invited to the Musain Christmas party, courtesy of Musichetta. It’s technically for staff only, but Musichetta is allowed to bring a few guests along; and since they’re such regular customers and waste their entire lives and wallets away in the Musain, the invitation has been extended to Les Amis in their entirety. Apparently even Marius is coming, though Courfeyrac is convinced that it’s probably the doing of Cosette. 

They bring Marie along to meet Jehan beforehand, all walking over to the Musain together. The others are already there and they’re a little late, but Courfeyrac seems pleased that the party is already past the awkward mingling stage and in full swing when they arrive. Bahorel and Feuilly have brought Rosa and Alice with them, and they’re sitting at a table in the back room with Grantaire and Eponine. Enjolras is sure it’s no coincidence that they’ve chosen the table closest to the where the refreshments are; and by refreshments he means large amounts of wine, cheap champagne, and sloe gin. 

They go around introducing Marie to all of their friends, who of course are all enamoured with her instantly. Enjolras later overhears Grantaire telling her that even though she and Combeferre don’t look too obviously similar, they have the same wry smile and wise eyes. Enjolras rolls his own eyes and waits for their conversation to end, so he can safely tell Marie off for all the not-so-subtle looks she keeps shooting him whenever Grantaire says something clever or flirtatious. 

“Do you mind if I steal Enjolras away for a moment?” Grantaire asks politely, even putting on his most charming smile. He looks at Enjolras briefly, a fleeting sense of apprehension evident in his features. 

“No,” Enjolras say curtly, before Marie even has a chance to answer. “Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of Marie.” 

Marie gives Enjolras a stern look but it does nothing to deter him. Grantaire falters; looking a little like a deer caught in headlights as nods his head and composes himself. “Um yeah, okay, I just. I wanted to apologise—about the other day, in Hoxton—I was acting like a twat.” He looks away and runs a hand through his hair, taking a few deep breaths. When he looks back there’s a terrified look in his eyes, but he tries to distract from it with a shaky laugh. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Sorry.” 

Grantaire sets down a glass of sloe gin in front of Enjolras—a peace offering, he assumes—and walks away in the other direction without another word. Enjolras stares after him, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do now.

“Jesus Christ, how do you even survive that much sexual tension,” Marie says, giving a low whistle as she shakes her head.

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras mutters, tipping his head back and downing the gin in one, wincing as it burns down his throat. 

“He clearly wants to fuck you until you can’t walk for a week. Or are you actually blind?” 

“God Marie, can you just—” Enjolras gives an involuntary shudder and grimaces at her. “Don’t ever talk to me about my hypothetical sex life: it’s weird.” 

Marie takes a sip of wine and looks to the same empty space that Enjolras is staring at. “Mhm, sorry. But you do see it don’t you?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Are you still a virgin? Don’t snap at me – just answer.” 

Enjolras fidgets and looks at his feet as he quietly says, “Yes.”

“Are you scared?” 

“Yes.” 

He doesn’t know what she’s referring to, not really. But the answer is still yes. 

Enjolras scrubs a hand up his cheek and tries to swallow the wave of nausea that has decided to make itself known. He pushes away from the table and springs out of his seat, needing something to do to occupy his thoughts and keep them busy with things that aren’t Grantaire. He ends up behind the bar; trying to find something to mix with the trickle of vodka he’s just poured himself. It doesn’t help. He just reminds himself of Grantaire – who is always sneaking behind the bar during late hours spent in the Musain, flirting with Musichetta shamelessly just so he can have free reign over the beer pumps and spirits. 

Grantaire; who is currently dancing with Eponine on top of a table and spinning her around in circles, a glass of sloe gin held precariously in his other hand. He’s laughing between sips: singing along to the music enthusiastically and wiggling his eyebrows at Eponine while she clutches her stomach in laughter. 

Enjolras abandons his drink and grabs a bottle of J2O from the fridge instead. He wonders into the back room of the Musain and mostly wants to turn around as soon as he does. All the couples and potential hook-ups seem to have congregated in the lower level, but when Enjolras’ only other choice is to watch Grantaire ignore him it’ll have to do.

Bahorel has Alice pressed into the corner of a booth, his hand resting on her thigh as he talks mostly into her neck. _Steer clear of that one_. Then there’s Musichetta dancing in the middle of the room, with Joly and Bahorel wrapped around her on both sides. There are too many subtle gropes and slow kisses for Enjolras to even consider approaching them. He could sit down with the other Musain employees, who are scattered across tables in small groups with the people they’ve brought along, but he’s honestly not in the mood for making new acquaintances. Enjolras doesn’t even know where Combeferre is, which is absolutely infuriating because he’s the one that Enjolras needs the most right now. 

Equally, there’s always Courfeyrac, but Enjolras can see him tucked away at the very far back with Jehan, and it looks like a private affair. So he just stands there awkwardly, trying to weigh up the least horrible option, when Jehan appears out of seemingly nowhere and links his arm with Enjolras’. 

“Hello darling,” Jehan says happily, a glass of champagne lifted to his lips. Courfeyrac materialises on his other side and also links their arms together, and the two of them guide Enjolras to where they’d been sitting before.

“You looked rather lost,” Courfeyrac muses, stroking his chin as they walk. “You were standing there like an abandoned puppy for about five minutes. It would have been criminal not to rescue you.”

Jehan pulls Enjolras down with him into a large armchair and Courfeyrac spreads himself out over both of them, legs hanging off the side. Jehan is playing mindlessly with Enjolras’ hand, threading and unthreading their fingers before he starts to trace the lines on his open palm. 

“What’s wrong?” Jehan asks quietly, and Courfeyrac looks up at him somewhat worriedly.  

“Nothing, don’t mind me. You two are having fun, aren’t you?” Enjolras tries to smile, but he has a feeling it looks stiff and uncomfortable. “I’m fine, really.” 

“Enjolras…” Courfeyrac addresses him in the motherly tone that is usually used by Combeferre, but he makes it work all the same. “It’s impossible to enjoy ourselves when you look so miserable. Cheer up – it’s almost Christmas.” 

“Sorry,” Enjolras says, but he’s busy thinking how nothing is any better just because Christmas is a few days away. Despite Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s constant insisting that he go home with one of them, Enjolras will probably be spending Christmas Day alone. 

“Don’t _apologise_ , it hurts my soul, ugh.” Jehan clasps his hand tightly now, and focuses his hazel eyes on Enjolras intently. “Grantaire is a mess, if you’re wondering. He really thinks he fucked up.” 

“I wasn’t,” Enjolras lies. 

Courfeyrac gnaws on his knuckle—a nervous habit—and looks as though he’s fighting an inner battle. Jehan looks at him curiously, and suddenly Enjolras realises that maybe Jehan doesn’t know as much as he thinks, and that Courfeyrac hasn’t actually told anyone at all about what happened in Hoxton. 

“What the fuck _happened_?” Jehan narrows his eyes at both Enjolras and Courfeyrac now, and he has his serious face on. “Somebody better start talking or I’m getting Grantaire over here.”

“Nothing happened, _alright_?” And Enjolras must sound as frustrated as he feels because Jehan’s expression is one of mild shock. “Look, just stop worrying about me, okay? You’ve got everything all wrong – I couldn’t give a shit about how Grantaire is.” 

Courfeyrac squawks when Enjolras pushes him off his lap to stand up, and the two of them call after him as he strides away with a steely look on his face. He knows he was rude, but he just isn’t in the right frame of mind to deal with his friends’ persistent advice that everything will fine and work itself out, because _it’s not._ The longer this ridiculous – _whatever_ is it—goes on, the further from Grantaire he feels. They were never close to perfect before, but at least Grantaire’s scathing remarks weren’t settling hurtfully under Enjolras’ skin. Apparently the days are gone where Enjolras could snap back at Grantaire’s irritating jibes and forget about it completely during the same minute. 

He’s angry with himself more than anything – angry that his feelings are completely screwing with him and have decided to point their affections towards Grantaire. _Affections_ – it doesn’t even feel like a word he can use to describe what’s going on. He can’t decide whether he really is attracted to Grantaire, or whether it’s curiosity towards what he doesn’t understand – what he can never _begin_ to understand. It makes no sense for him to feel like this about Grantaire; not when he’s everything that Enjolras isn’t. He’s always making a show out of being lazy, of not caring about anything of real importance, and he deliberately aggravates Enjolras. That’s not even taking into consideration the fact that he is almost never sober. 

So it can’t be that he fancies Grantaire—despite what his friends are eager to keep telling him—because it doesn’t make any sense at all. It’s must be something about being drawn to this enigma who acts something like his shadow, even though there’s absolutely nothing in it for him. It’s curiosity that has been left to fester and take root, and it’s driving Enjolras absolutely mad. That’s all it is. He should never have tried to think otherwise. Nobody should have. He doesn’t do relationships beyond friendship, and there’s obviously a reason for that. A drugged-up waif of a struggling artist isn’t about to suddenly change that – _especially_ not Grantaire. 

Enjolras is still standing in the corner by the top of the stairs that separate the back and front rooms of the Musain, when his ears attune to the voice he is least ready to hear right now. 

“You’re looking particularly glum tonight,” Grantaire says above the music and noise of everyone else, still making the short walk from the bathroom door to where Enjolras is glued to the spot. “I must be imagining it – I haven’t even said a single thing to enrage you yet.” 

Enjolras scowls at him, because there’s nothing else he can do but glare daggers at a person as _infuriating_ as Grantaire. He has the audacity to ignore him for _two weeks_ (and how a person manages to ignore someone when they’re constantly in the same room is a mystery to Enjolras), then makes a spontaneous apology and comes strolling over with a twisted smile as if _nothing_ has happened. 

Enjolras is close to livid: so _very_ close to boiling point. 

“So, still trying to save the world one student protest at a time? Or will your New Years resolution be to get your head out of the clouds?” It’s a joke, it’s not even sour or reproachful at all, but Enjolras just doesn’t know how to tell the difference at this point.

Grantaire can’t stay still: he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet and doesn’t know what to do with his hands and his eyes are wide with an intensity that Enjolras can’t pin down. Enjolras shoves at Grantaire’s shoulder, just to see him topple to the side when he loses balance for half a second. 

“You’re fucking _exasperating_! Have I ever told you that?” Enjolras spits, taking a step towards Grantaire until there’s barely an inch of space between them. Grantaire is still looking up at him, enraptured, and there’s a twitch of a smile on his lips that makes Enjolras’ blood go hot with annoyance. “Is it physically impossible for you to act decent towards me for even just a moment?” Enjolras jabs him in the chest with one finger, attempting to pull himself up to look down at Grantaire more than their two or three-inch height difference will allow. 

Grantaire laughs—a dry bark of sound—and it seems to be the only thing Enjolras ever gets from him. “You’ve told me plenty,” Grantaire says evenly, looking up at Enjolras with a challenge in his eyes. “I’m just realistic, remember? Come on, don’t get your knickers in a twist—” 

“No, okay, be serious Grantaire!” 

Something flashes across Grantaire’s face too fast for Enjolras to gauge. He’s still trying to decipher what it was when Grantaire surges forwards in a quick movement, a warm hand curling firmly around the back of Enjolras’ neck, and he presses their mouths together. Enjolras’ eyes are alert and open, the hair on his arms standing on end and his skin prickling as Grantaire’s lips barely move against his own. 

Grantaire pulls away a fraction, his lips still ghosting over Enjolras’ as he whispers, “I’m _wild_.” 

Enjolras can’t feel his body. He’s sure it’s not possible to go completely numb from every nerve feeling like it’s on fire, but he doesn’t think he can move a single limb. He just cracks open his eyes—which must have fallen shut at some point—and looks down at Grantaire’s mouth, hovering so close to his. 

But then something changes, something snaps and breaks and Grantaire is making space between them with panicked speed, looking as though he’s just burnt himself as he backs away. He mutters something that Enjolras doesn’t hear, and then he’s gone. 

Enjolras doesn’t think to go after him until he hears the bell over the Musain door chime, and by then it’s too late. Grantaire is somewhere in the dark, his breath a white smoke in the night as he takes himself far away from Enjolras. 

Enjolras brings his fingers to his lips, touches where Grantaire’s breath had been before, and finds his legs giving up as he slides down the wall to sit on the floor in a daze. That had been… unexpected, to say the least. His heart is still hammering against his ribcage, and his hands are doing that tingling thing again that only happens around Grantaire.

Enjolras ignores the fact that Grantaire has completely disappeared; he desperately tries not to think about it at all. Instead, he finds Combeferre and spends the rest of the evening sitting next to him quietly, thinking about a surprisingly careful kiss lingering on his lips and a tight grip at the back of his neck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am head over heels in love with marie and you can see me wax poetic about her in [headcanons of her and ferre's relationship!!!](http://between2devils.tumblr.com/post/64239161778)


	9. new years

Feuilly and Grantaire insist that everyone who isn’t returning home their, quote, _stinking rotten families_ (Grantaire, obviously), come to their place instead for a Christmas Day gathering of too much food and even more drink. Bahorel leaves to visit his grandparents early on Christmas Eve, armed with a mighty hangover and presents wrapped with all the finesse of a five-year-old. Jehan and his parents have been invited for Christmas celebrations with Courfeyrac’s family, and Enjolras had tried to convince Combeferre to stay at home with his own family, but the man is having absolutely none of it. 

Enjolras still isn’t going anywhere near his parents’ house for Christmas—it’s not home, he has one of those and it’s right here—and apparently this makes him Combeferre’s most important charity case. 

Joly, Bossuet, and Mushichetta are making the most of the string of days she has off work. Nobody is exactly sure how the three of them are spending Christmas; but they do know it won’t be wasted on friends they see practically every day (in the nicest way possible). Marius is with Cosette, of course, and has apparently been spending the last few days at her father’s house in Notting Hill – finding out all of the tales of his misspent youth and time in prison, that up until time, was believed to be one of Cosette’s stories to scare Marius.

So it ends up being a mismatch portion of their group assembled at Feuilly and Grantaire’s house. Eponine and her little brother have been there since Christmas Eve morning. Enjolras suspects that she and Grantaire probably went to pick up Gavroche as soon as someone was sober enough after the party at the Musain.  Enjolras also suspects that they still haven’t been to sleep since, and have just been absorbing Gavroche’s energy through osmosis. 

Enjolras can’t help but worry about the state of things in the Thénardier household if they’ve had to whisk Gavroche away even on Christmas, thinking that _this_ house is a better environment for a twelve-year-old boy. But Enjolras knows not to ask—not to pry where Eponine’s family are concerned—because last time he tried that she twisted his arm around his back and told him to mind his own goddamn business.

When Enjolras and Combeferre arrive at midday, the turkey is still defrosting in the bath and Grantaire is playing Just Dance with Gavroche in the living room, looking incredibly flushed underneath his competitive grin. Enjolras doesn’t even want to ask where that games console came from – he has a feeling he won’t like the answer. 

Combeferre asks anyway. 

“Oh – it was Bahorel’s present for Gavroche. We let him open it last night since Bahorel isn’t around today,” Feuilly says from the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of buck’s fizz. Enjolras assumes the buck’s fizz is an unofficial gift from the Thenardiers, since there are boxes full of it all piled up in the hallway. 

“Yeah, it seems that Bahorel has actually been showing up to work – hence the sudden splash of money,” Grantaire adds, laughing a little breathlessly as he and Gavroche finish a dance. 

Eponine glides past Combeferre to switch on the lights spiralling down the Christmas tree (with a catlike grace that Enjolras has come to instinctively associate with Grantaire), and frowns into her own glass of bucks fizz as she takes a sip. “We’re leaving it here though—for safekeeping—I don’t trust my parents not to sell it out the back of a van.” 

Enjolras had fully prepared himself for a Christmas that would consist more of Chinese take-out and vodka, than it would festive cheer. But he soon finds out that Feuilly and Grantaire take the occasion very seriously (or as seriously as the two of them possibly can) and run a tight ship. Feuilly is in charge of everything and wears a novelty Santa hat to prove it. As his deputy and right-hand man, Grantaire prances about in reindeer antlers and lets Gavroche paint the end of his nose bright red. 

It’s definitely set to be the most interesting Christmas Enjolras has ever experienced. 

The turkey finally defrosts enough to get a start on dinner, and Feuilly makes it very clear that he is the only person who touches the turkey until it is served up on their plates. As a generally terrible cook, Enjolras is completely happy with this arrangement, and doesn’t complain when the tedious duty of setting the table is delegated to him. Although he’s not sure how accurately he can use the term _table_ , when they’ve had to bring down Bahorel’s desk to slap on the end (hidden under a tablecloth that looks suspiciously like Grantaire’s curtain, which isn’t even a curtain at all _anyway_ ). Nobody has even dared mentioning that fitting six people at this set up will be a tight squeeze, and maybe if they stay quiet nothing will go wrong. 

Enjolras is trying very hard not to think too much about Grantaire ( _not now, not today, you’re not allowed to ruin Christmas for god’s sake_ ), but it’s near-impossible when Grantaire is singing along merrily to the awful CD of Christmas songs that are blaring throughout the entire house. Enjolras almost stabs himself in the hand with a fork because he’s so distracted by Grantaire’s fingers mixing ingredients in a glass bowl for stuffing then rolling it out into little balls.

Enjolras thinks about the night before last. The one where Grantaire had him cornered against a wall and a tight grip at the back of his neck. He wants to say something— _God_ does he want to—ask for an explanation or a clarification of what the hell is happening between them. It’s a horrific idea though; he can just imagine Grantaire blowing up in his face like an atomic bomb, swallowing up every ounce of festive cheer in a ten-mile radius. 

So Enjolras gets a hold on his emotions and does not approach Grantaire in the kitchen, does not quietly ask if he wants to talk about it, and certainly does not pull him aside. 

Instead, Enjolras waits until Grantaire slips out into the garden to corner him. He’s been waiting for the better part of an hour for the right opportunity (although he’d managed to talk himself out of it when Grantaire left to use the bathroom). He makes sure nobody is paying attention when he goes out of the backdoor after Grantaire, gently shutting it behind him. The cold instantly hits his face like a whip and he hugs himself against the icy breeze, shoving his hands under his armpits before they can get frostbite. 

Grantaire has his back to him, head bowed as he cups his fingers around the flame of a lighter. Enjolras feels colder from just looking at him; he's wearing a t-shirt that has a gaping tear at the collar and little holes dotted everywhere else, with nothing over the top. Enjolras pulls his arms tighter around himself and goes to stand next to Grantaire once his cigarette is lit.

Grantaire doesn’t even notice he’s there for a few seconds, but once he does he gives a little jerk of shock and fumbles to catch the cigarette that’s just fallen from between his fingers. 

“Fucking hell, are you trying to kill me?” He gasps eventually, giving his hand a shake from where he must have burnt it a little. He turns to Enjolras with wide eyes, his breath still coming quickly, but he breaks into a slow smile when Enjolras doesn’t look away. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Grantaire asks with an air of bewilderment, smoke billowing out of his mouth. 

At first Enjolras had just been staring at the pink flush across Grantaire’s nose and cheeks from the cold, and the red of his mouth from where he’d been chewing on his lips as he and Feuilly had folded napkins into fancy shapes. But then he realises that Grantaire’s eyes aren’t just wide in shock, but they’re too glassy and dark, his pupils swallowing the blue around them. 

“Are you high?” Enjolras frowns, because for some reason that changes everything he’d planned to say. 

“Do you care?” 

Enjolras’ frown deepens because while Grantaire sounds accusing, his lips are turning up at the corners into a smirk. 

“I asked you first,” Enjolras retorts stiffly, his jaw hardening. 

“And I think you already know the answer.” Grantaire’s smile is terribly sweet now, matching the singsong of his voice. He blows a few rings of smoke towards Enjolras’ face just to irritate him. 

"You kissed me the other night,” Enjolras says rather petulantly—not that he would admit that—as he waves the smoke away from his eyes impatiently. Grantaire freezes, the cigarette hanging limply in his mouth as the colour quickly drains from his face. 

“Great, fucking _great_ ,” Grantaire says to himself grimly, turning away from Enjolras to take a long drag of smoke. He doesn’t say anything until after he’s tipped his head back and exhaled shakily towards the sky, and then flicks the cigarette butt over the fence into the other neighbours’ garden. 

"So you remember that." It’s not really a question so Enjolras says nothing, but Grantaire ploughs on anyway. "Look, I was off my fucking head and I’d just done a line of coke, and I know what you're going to say—so can I just apologise and we can never talk about it again, because I know that I was out of line and completely selfish and you probably want to punch me, but I already feel like a shit human being, so." 

"What?" 

"Right okay, wonderful. I'm going to, uh, help Eponine with the vegetables." Grantaire avoids looking at Enjolras as he steps back inside, sliding the door shut behind him. 

Enjolras stands there in the bitter cold for longer than he realises, his coat uselessly hanging up in the front hallway as he shivers in the back garden, teeth chattering and toes completely numb. He has no idea how much time has passed when Combeferre places a warm hand on his shoulder and leads him back inside, saying quiet things that go in one ear and straight out the other. 

“What are we going to do with you,” Combeferre sighs to himself, pushing Enjolras gently out of the kitchen to where Gavroche is sprawled across the sofa watching cartoons. 

Enjolras flops down next to him and tries to focus on the television, and not on Grantaire honey-glazing carrots and parsnips just a few feet away. Gavroche doesn’t even look away from the cartoon, just holds up a plate of mince pies to Enjolras wordlessly, shaking it a little when Enjolras doesn’t do anything. 

“Grantaire can be a very confusing person,” Gavroche says eventually; just about quiet enough so that it stays between the two of them. Enjolras takes a mince pie and a swig of whatever drink Grantaire has left on the coffee table.

“How long have you known him?” 

“A few years.” Gavroche squirms about until he’s repositioned himself to stretch his legs out in Enjolras’ lap, able to watch both him and the television from this angle. “He met Eponine when he started university, and she was at home more back then so I’d hang around with them a lot.” 

“Grantaire went to university?” Enjolras frowns, his interest piqued. He doesn’t know why it’s never occurred to him before – Grantaire is only a few years older than him. 

Gavroche cranes his neck to make sure Grantaire is still busy in the kitchen, before he nods and says, “He went to art college for a while, but it didn’t really work out.” 

Enjolras feels like he should know these things by now, but Grantaire never exactly wants to offer up a great deal about his past – not to Enjolras at least. But Enjolras usually prides himself on knowing his friends inside and out, and here Grantaire is, still as much an enigma as the day they met, and definitely frustrating as ever. 

“Does anything about him ever make sense?” He asks with a sigh, rubbing at his eyes until fuzzy colours twinkle behind his eyelids. 

Gavroche looks at him with an impish smile, his arms folded across his chest. “I think it does now.”

“What does that even _mean_?” Enjolras groans, pulling a cushion on top of his face so that he doesn’t have to look at Gavroche’s smug little expression. That kid is far too smart for his own good, and in all the worst ways.

\---- 

Grantaire was the last person Enjolras had bought a present for. He was struggling mercilessly and was reluctant to ask anyone in fear of the ridicule and teasing that would follow. But then he’d gone to a market in East London to visit Feuilly at work, and he’d seen it on his way out and _knew_ that he’d found something. It could have done with being a bit cheaper, but he’s dipped into his savings for practically all of his friends’ presents _anyway –_ what was one more?

So he’d been feeling really good about the whole thing right up until now; as Grantaire seems torn between feverishly ripping away the wrapping paper and carefully extracting the gift from inside. But the whole time Enjolras can’t stop looking at the air of confusion colouring his features, and now he feels sick with worry that he’s gone and made a mistake. 

“What’s this?” Grantaire asks, and you’d think he had a bomb in his hands from the pitch of his voice. 

“A coat,” Enjolras says slowly, because it is very obviously a coat. Grantaire has the material fisted in both of his hands while he stares at Enjolras like this is some kind of joke. “I’ve never actually seen you wear one and I thought—” 

“You thought I probably just don’t own a single coat? 

“Do you?”

“ _No_.” Grantaire holds the green parka out in front of him and looks it up and down, and the rest of the room is suspiciously quiet until Grantaire quietly mutters, “I can’t believe you got me a _present_." 

They stop talking about it when Gavroche starts tearing open another present, and everyone’s attention turns to the red Swiss Army knife that Enjolras has given him. 

“This is so cool!” Gavroche says in awe, flicking out all the different tools and inspecting it. 

“Dear God,” Eponine groans, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. 

Combeferre looks at Enjolras with a clear expression that says all of his patience is gone and he is only just managing to restrain himself. “How did you come to the conclusion that a multi-functional knife would be a suitable gift for a _twelve-year-old_?” 

“I had one,” Grantaire shrugs, and he turns it over in his hands when Gavroche shows it to him.

“And look how well you turned out,” Eponine scoffs, swatting at the back of his head. Grantaire grins and folds all the tools back in, telling Gavroche to be careful before he hands it back.

Gavroche pockets it and goes back to the tree, returning with a gift for Enjolras and a wry smile. “It’s from Grantaire,” he says, grinning, as he drops it in Enjolras’ lap and sits by Combeferre to watch. 

“Oh.” Enjolras looks at the present, neatly wrapped in brown paper and addressed to Enjolras in permanent marker on the corner – signed off with a beautifully curled _R_. 

He tears the paper off carefully—more carefully than he’s ever managed in his life—and is left with a shoebox in his hands. He removes the lid and finds an assortment of things. There’s a rolled up piece of thick card, secured by a rubber band; and next to that is a beret and leather-bound notebook—both in the same shade of deep crimson—and a thick cigar resting on top. 

“What is all of this?” Enjolras says mostly to himself, pulling out the beret and holding it up to get a better look. It probably matches his duffle coat perfectly. 

“All the hot revolutionaries have one,” Grantaire smirks, and in an instant Enjolras _knows_. He doesn’t, however, know where Grantaire got the cigar (and he doesn’t particularly think he wants to find out). “And I figured you’d need somewhere nice to write about your daily efforts to correct the corruption of humanity – and draft your speeches too, I guess.” 

“It’s not _humanity_ that’s corrupt,” Enjolras mutters, turning the notebook over in his hands. “But thanks, this is… it’s great.” He looks up and sees Grantaire squirming in his seat a little, chewing manically at his lip again as his leg bobs up and down.

Enjolras moves the box to the floor and unrolls the piece of paper, which ends up being an A3-sized hand painted portrait – of him. Gavroche and Eponine are whining at him to show them but he can’t stop looking at the utterly absurd thing held in front of his eyes. Captured in thick, angry strokes of burgundy and scarlet and black is his own face, wearing the beret that now sits forgotten in the shoebox. It’s an obvious piss-take of the stylised image of Che Guevara—though this is less iconic and more light-hearted mockery—and it has Enjolras staring pensively into the distance, the razor-sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw making him look vicious and stoic all at once. 

There’s even gold embedded into the curls of his hair, catching the light and glinting against its black and red surroundings.

Enjolras looks at Grantaire and finds him sheepishly staring back at him with his cheeks burning. “You are terrible.” 

Grantaire presses his lips together, bitten raw and now a dark pink. “I know.”

“This is ridiculous.” 

“I know.” 

By now, everyone else in the room has crowded around Enjolras to look at the painting, whispering among themselves quietly enough for Enjolras not to hear. He ignores them anyway, still focusing on Grantaire, who looks almost terrified. 

“Against my better judgement, I sort of really like it?” Enjolras says, more a question that any kind of statement. Grantaire’s eyebrows shoot up and Combeferre groans painfully somewhere in the background. 

“You guys are really gross. Can we open more presents now?” Gavroche complains, no longer interested in all the commotion. 

“I’m on Gav’s side; I might actually vom if I have to watch you two making gooey eyes at each other for any longer.” Eponine extracts herself from the little group around Enjolras and ruffles Gavroche’s hair on her way to the tree. 

“I’m not—” 

“That’s not what—” 

But despite both Enjolras and Grantaire’s objections, she just raises one arched eyebrow at them and snorts in laughter. “ _Sure_ , my mistake.” 

The rest of the presents range from the surprisingly creative to more, shall we say, _improvised_ ideas. For Grantaire, Feuilly has very beautifully wrapped two packs of Marlboro Reds and a bottle of Absolut vodka (that Gavroche is very quickly told to keep his paws off by Eponine). 

“You all laugh now,” Grantaire says, hugging the gifts to his chest and bringing Feuilly into the embrace with one arm. “But this is very thoughtful and I’m never going to shove any of these under my bed and pretend I actually like them – as was tradition with all of my uncle’s Christmas presents.” He looks at the bottle of Absolut with pure adoration in his eyes, and then kisses Feuilly wetly on the cheek. “Oh god, finally something better than Glen’s for my alcohol stash!” 

“Hey! Glen’s has been there for us in all our years of being piss-poor, and has never failed to get us completely wasted!” Eponine cries, clutching a hand over her heart in exaggerated horror.

“She’s right – at this point it’s practically blasphemy to insult Glen’s vodka,” Feuilly sighs, before telling Gavroche to forget everything he’s just heard. 

By the end of it they’re all a little giddy from several cups of warm mulled wine – except for Gavroche, who is sitting in the middle of the living room floor amidst all the torn up wrapping paper, twitching from a sugar rush that Grantaire had warned him about an hour ago. 

“Can we do the fireworks now?” Gavroche asks, his eyes lighting up with excitement. Enjolras’ heart twinges a little at the sight of him, and while he’s glad that Gavroche is safely here with them instead of at home or with Montparnasse, he wishes that boy could have so much more instead. 

“Can you legally buy fireworks this many days before New Years?” Combeferre asks curiously, a hint of disbelief colouring his voice.

Eponine smirks with a roll of her eyes as she pulls her boots on. “Are you seriously doubting the idea that my family could get a load of fireworks outside of legal selling periods? Really Ferre, I thought you were smarter than that. Besides, who said we _bought_ them?” Combeferre’s cheeks redden slightly, and he agrees that she has a very solid point. 

“Speaking of illegal explosives: maybe Gavroche shouldn’t get too close to these,” Feuilly points out as he goes out into the hall, returning a moment later with an nondescript cardboard box.

Even so, Gavroche is hot on his heels and practically bouncing along behind Feuilly. Combeferre leads the way outside, and all of them are pulling their coats on in readiness of the icy weather on the other side of the door. 

“You guys go ahead, I’m getting another drink first,” Grantaire says as he hangs back, and they all shuffle outside with their hands shoved deep into their pockets. 

Enjolras plants himself down on the rickety bench on the stone patio, the wooden panels creaking with use and old age, its metal frame green and brown with flaking rust. He tugs his coat tighter around his body as he watches Combeferre carefully light sparklers for Gavroche and Eponine, while Feuilly sets up fireworks in the grass at the other end of the garden. Enjolras finds the corner of his mouth quirking up, a warm sensation settling beneath his sternum as he watches Eponine chase Combeferre with her sparkler outstretched in her hand (and somewhere in the back of his mind Enjolras notes that Joly would be halfway to an aneurism at their complete disregard of firework safety). Then there’s Gavroche watching them, a wide grin on his face as his laugh fills the entire street, and he makes ever changing patterns in the air with his own sparkler.

“Feuilly, don’t you dare light that cigarette!” Combeferre warns in alarm, and Enjolras sees Feuilly smirking back with a hastily rolled cigarette pressed between his lips – the box of fireworks dangerously close by.

Grantaire comes out to join them, buried inside of his parka coat with the fur hood pulled up over his hair. He smiles lazily at the scene before him, pausing at the door while he takes in the sight of Combeferre protectively pulling Gavroche back a distance from the first firework that is lit. Enjolras sees it light up the sky in a blast of orange from the corner of his eye, but he’s watching the awe in Grantaire’s face and the tilt of his head as he looks up. 

Grantaire has a habit of making jibes about his own supposed ugliness—between boasts of all the numbers he gets and girls he claims to sleep with—and it usually leaves Enjolras sitting in tight-lipped silence. Even though he didn’t start out being attracted to Grantaire’s appearance, Enjolras has never thought of him as _ugly_.  He’s undeniably drawn to the way Grantaire looks though, and there’s something terrifying about that. Ever since Grantaire’s ghostly eyes had first stared at him across the living room, Enjolras has been haunted by visions of pale skin stretched too tight over bone, dark hair spilling over in messy curls, and even the very slight crook of his nose. 

But right now, Enjolras can’t imagine ever being able to feel completely indifferent to Grantaire’s face. Not when he’s like this: in a moment of rare defencelessness with no brick walls put up around him; no smirks or sarcastic smiles hiding a miserable grimace; no lowering of eyelashes to mockingly flirt with him.

“This is nice,” Grantaire says softly, suddenly much closer to Enjolras than before. “This is so, so nice,” he repeats as he sits down next to Enjolras with a thud. He’s still watching the bursts of fireworks in the sky, exploding into flashes of white and green and red with a whoosh and a loud crackle each time. “There should always be fireworks on Christmas – why isn’t that a thing?” 

Enjolras only half-listens, more focused on Grantaire wearing the coat that he bought him. He’s never considered himself possessive, but there’s something significant in the action, in seeing Grantaire finally accept something he has to give. His mouth is dry and he’s scared that if he says something his throat will close up and his voice will sound like somebody else’s. 

He tries anyway, unable to keep his mouth shut for too long. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Go ahead.” Grantaire feels warm pressed against Enjolras’ side, his breath sweet and faintly spicy from another mug of mulled wine that he’s cradling.

Enjolras could live in this moment.

He wants to feel this every day that he is alive, this tranquil contentedness that mixes warm and cold, longing and satisfaction. He wants soft words passing between the two of them and Grantaire falling asleep on his shoulder while their friends laugh and joke and remind Enjolras of the _people_ behind every cause. 

Enjolras still feels like he barely knows Grantaire though, which is why asks his next question with caution. “Why aren’t you with your family today?” 

Grantaire doesn’t tense up or shove Enjolras away like he half-expects him to. Grantaire is in a very good mood, pleasantly drunk rather than bitterly drunk, and he indulges Enjolras for the moment. 

“I’m fairly sure I’m not the least bit welcome,” Grantaire says casually. 

Enjolras doesn’t quite snort, mostly because it feels as though a fist is clamped around his heart and _squeezing_. “Yeah, me too.” He makes a note to ask Grantaire about it another time. 

“I don’t want to talk about them—families and disappointment and hurt feelings—not now,” Grantaire says suddenly, somehow still managing to sound serene and full and even happy. And Enjolras has to wonder if maybe Grantaire sneaked another hit before they came outside because he’s grabbing Enjolras’ hand and slotting their fingers together. He points up to the sky, fingers entwined, and extends both of their arms in the air. “Do you see that?” 

Enjolras is only partially sure that Grantaire is talking about the single burst of light in the sweep of inky sky.

“That’s the Dog Star – it’s twice as big as the Sun and twenty-five times as bright.”

Enjolras can see the outline of Grantaire’s throat, his head tipped back to stare upwards. His profile is a silhouette in front of the light from the kitchen window, but the edges of his features are outlined in a soft illumination from the moon. 

“Sirius means glowing in Ancient Greek, and the Polynesians used it as a marker for winter solstice.” Grantaire is still talking and Enjolras is barely listening because Grantaire is so beautiful and he is so clever and so self-derisive that it hurts. “You’re not looking,” Grantaire pouts, and he’s still watching that one lonely star with wide eyes and parted lips. 

“I am,” Enjolras says quietly, not taking his eyes off Grantaire, “I’m looking.” 

Grantaire eventually turns to look at Enjolras, and there’s a childlike quality to his eyes: bubbling fear that Enjolras can’t identify or grasp. “I’m sorry I almost fucked everything up,” Grantaire almost whispers, and he’s staring at Enjolras’ shoulder rather than his face. “I’m not sure how to stop doing that.” 

Enjolras doesn’t quite know what to say and he doesn’t get the chance either: Gavroche comes running over with a pink nose and red cheeks and his mouth running with words that fly straight over Enjolras’ head. Grantaire must hear what he’s saying though, because he’s nodding and laughing gently and shuffling even closer to Enjolras to make room for Gavroche to curl up against his other side on the bench. 

“Feuilly’s doing a Catherine Wheel – it’s going to be very spectacular,” Grantaire says privately to Enjolras, hiding a small smile behind a sip from his mug. Enjolras thinks of Grantaire taking Gavroche to the park and picking him up from school with Eponine and tickling his ribs. He can’t help but smile back. 

“Thank you.” Enjolras nudges Grantaire’s knee with his own and watches Feuilly frantically running away from the Catherine Wheel he’s just lit. “For this—Christmas—it’s been wonderful.” 

Grantaire shrugs at him, a sheepish sort of curve to his mouth as he tries to retreat further back into his hood. Enjolras knows that this is it: the moment when he is sure that he can’t be satisfied with only having Grantaire like this.  

\----

Everyone has settled down in London again by the time New Years Eve is looming, and everything is a blur of late presents being exchanged alongside dramatic retellings of the things that happened while they were visiting their families. At one point Bahorel notices Grantaire’s new coat and asks where it came from, and everyone sees the colour that sits high on his cheeks when he says it was a gift from Enjolras. And then of course everybody turns to Enjolras with odd expressions that aren’t being hid nearly as well as they all think, and he mumbles something about getting back to the meeting as he shuffles his papers around. 

In the days that follow Christmas, Enjolras and Grantaire fall back into something that resembles their…well whatever it was…before the Hoxton disaster. It’s still not _normal_ —and it would probably be weird if anything concerning them _was_ normal—but it’s more of what he’s used to: Grantaire interrupting ABC meetings just for the sake of opposing and doing anything to rile Enjolras up, be it snarky comments or pretend-flirting. 

(He assumes it’s pretend anyway, because clearly Grantaire isn’t interested in what lies in that direction.)  

So they make it to New Years Eve with minimal casualties (unless you count the night when Bossuet walked straight into a lamppost and bruised his forehead). They’d toyed with the idea of going out in the city—seeing the year out with a bang and all that—but one look at most of their pathetic wallets was enough to convince them that the Musain was still as good a place as any. 

Nobody is ever quite sure why the Musain isn’t always bustling with too many people when the food and drink there is wonderfully cheap, but something tells Enjolras it is largely down to the fact that they are apparently ‘terrifyingly intimidating’ to anyone who doesn’t have more than a few political bones in their body. Which is why it comes as quite a shock when they head down there late on the 31st, having already gone for pre-drinks (which had somehow lasted three hours at The Corinthe) beforehand, and find the Musain absolutely packed. 

“It appears that we’re under siege, boys,” Courfeyrac says as they come inside from the cold, everyone pulling their gloves and scarves off before they can burn up in the toasty heat of the Musain. 

“Excuse _you_ ,” Cosette snorts, whacking Courfeyrac on the back of his head with her gloves, Eponine sniggering next to her in satisfaction. 

It’s a full house tonight and it’s lucky that most of the people already here are squeezed into the front, leaving their usual cluster of tables in the back room free to claim. Cosette and Marius cosy up to each other in one chair, looking as loved up as ever, while Jehan and Courfeyrac sit across from one another and play some kind of footsies that looks far more violent than romantic. 

Grantaire has flopped into the big velvet armchair that Enjolras usually sits in, and Eponine is squashed in next to him with her legs outstretched on a cushioned footrest. Enjolras, vaguely perturbed by the tongue Grantaire is now sticking out at him, sits on the loveseat between Feuilly and Combeferre. 

“Oh, put the jukebox on!” Courfeyrac calls out when Joly and Bossuet go to get a round of drinks and say hello to Musichetta. “Something sentimental so we can get all nostalgic about the end of the year!” 

Nobody says anything as the first melancholy notes of Perfect Day sound out of the jukebox, and it’s all very thoughtful until a guy from another table stumbles over and changes the song, slurring about it being “ _too bloody depressing for how fucking drunk I am right now_ ”. 

“Well then, here’s to all the pretty girls who dirtied my sheets!” Bahorel jeers, and Feuilly rolls his eyes in total exasperation, though he’s still unable to hide a small smirk. 

“And to the pretty boys,” Jehan sighs wistfully, a mischievous curve to his lips as Courfeyrac flutters his eyelashes at him. 

“It _is_ going to be hard to beat the year where we got kicked out of university.” 

“Maybe next year you’ll be less of an idiot,” Combeferre says fondly, though his sweet smile is undermined by the kick he lands firmly on Courfeyrac’s shin. 

“It’s sort of been year of romance and new love, hasn’t it?” Cosette beams, placing a kiss on Marius’ temple as he tugs her closer in his lap. “What with me and Marius; Jehan and Courf; Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta; oh and Eponine and—” 

“Please stop talking.” Eponine’s face is mashed into Grantaire’s shoulder but she continues to groan and shake her head. Cosette looks mildly shocked, possibly a little worried that she’d almost said more than Eponine would like anyone to know. 

“Maybe next year our resident marble sculpture will find unexpected love.”

Enjolras’ gaze switches to Grantaire, who is looking at him with a smile that feels sharp as barbed wire. He looks tired—more so than usual—and Enjolras examines the pallor of his skin tonight, alongside the gauntness of his cheeks. He tries to let that remark do nothing more than slightly irritate him; and maybe if Grantaire wasn’t looking so uneasy right now he would even have laughed. 

“How about it, Enjolras?” Grantaire’s hands are trembling: just a little bit, so that anyone who wasn’t paying close attention would miss it entirely. He sees Enjolras watching and tops up his glass of wine to busy his hands, probably to stave off the shakes, but he can’t keep the bottle steady and ends up filling the glass right up the brim. 

“Steady on, R.” Eponine gives him a pointed look and extracts the bottle from his hands, setting it down on the other side of the table. She takes a large gulp of Grantaire’s wine before he can spill it all over the table, and passes it back to him. 

“Maybe you should be wishing for more important things, Grantaire,” Enjolras says weakly, and there’s an uncomfortable tension beginning to swallow the room. 

Musichetta comes rushing into the back of the Musain with Bossuet and Joly and practically flings herself at their cluster of seats and tables. “The countdown’s just started!” And sure enough, they can hear the sound of people in the other parts of the Musain shouting out numbers. 

“To good friends and good wine!” Joly cheers over the commotion, and they all happily drink to that and manage to join in the countdown just as it reaches five. 

They all stand up and huddle together, arms around each other as they grin and ready themselves. Musichetta has brought a cheap bottle of champagne down with her and she shakes it up now, cracking it open just as midnight hits and everyone shouts “Happy New Year!” in unison. They cry out as the cork flies into the ceiling and they all get soaked in the spray of champagne, hair sticking to their foreheads and droplets of it clinging to their eyelashes as they pour out their old drinks into a pitcher of flat beer. Musichetta haphazardly fills all of the now empty glasses, spilling champagne all over the table and wheezing between laughter that they’re going to need another bottle.

Enjolras is swept into a number of different hugs, while Jehan kisses Courfeyrac so hard that he stumbles backwards into a low table and they both go tumbling to the floor, still attached at the mouth. Combeferre goes slightly pink when Eponine kiss his cheek (only she very almost misses and nearly kisses the corner of his mouth), and Enjolras shares a snort of laughter with Grantaire and Cosette over it. 

“Auld lang syne, come on, outside _now_!” Musichetta shouts, standing up on a table to project her voice through the Musain. “Get off your arses you fuckers, and I’ll give everyone a drink on the house!” She hops down off the table, taking the hand that Joly has held out, before grabbing both him and Bossuet and leading them outside. 

The other customers are still busy seeing the new year in with the lips and embraces of another: either too drunk to have heard Musichetta’s offer or too drunk to care. Enjolras, however, finds himself being pulled out of the building in an excited mob, somewhere between Courfeyrac and Bahorel. All thirteen of them pile outside and spill into the street outside the Musain, where other groups of friends are still cheering and blowing on party horns. 

They all clasp hands and form a wobbly circle of feet tripping over the cobblestones as they begin to rotate, Musichetta leading the singing in a loud and bellowing voice. 

“ _Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?”_

Enjolras sings along, fumbling over the words that his drink-addled brain tries feebly to remember from past New Years, and they spin around faster as their voices grow louder and progressively more out of tune. A few of the people in the street start to join in and sing drunkenly from the sidelines – much to Musichetta’s delight as she throws her head back and lets her wild hair blow behind her in the breeze.

“God bless the Scottish!” Bahorel cheers. Enjolras thinks he vaguely remembers Musichetta saying that the half of her that isn’t West Indian is actually very definitely Scottish.

They only remember to cross their arms over once they reach the chorus and they speed up again in their turning, everyone shouting into the night and being encouraged by the modest crowd they’ve attracted around them. Enjolras is dizzier than ever, hardly even knowing which way is up as he laughs through the dangerous spinning of his head and keeps going. 

He makes the mistake of looking at Grantaire, who happens to be almost directly opposite him. Grantaire, with his own arms crossed over one another as he sings to the stars, exposing the line of his throat as his head tips back. Enjolras falters, forgetting the words even more in wake of Grantaire grinning easily and happily, his cheeks flushed with drink when the street lamps catch his face.

Enjolras swallows, feeling heavy with something he can’t describe. Courfeyrac’s voice flows in one ear and out the other, completely blocked out of Enjolras’ senses in favour of Grantaire’s booming voice, his deep laughter seeping into Enjolras’ bones. Then he’s being yanked forwards, torn out of his trance as they all go rushing towards the middle of the circle with their hands still joined. Enjolras jolts, suddenly greeted by a face full of Grantaire and his brilliant smile, but he can’t help but grin back at him with a huff of laughter. 

It’s wonderful, he thinks, as they all cheer and stumble backwards into a circle again. They try to do the proper finish of turning under their arms to face outwards while continuing to hold hands, and Enjolras is so indescribably happy at where he is right now. There are no other people he’d rather see the New Year in with than the rabble of friends he’s surrounded by here, who are all taking each other into their arms and promising that it’s going to be the best bloody year ever. 

There are coloured splotches blinking behind Enjolras’ eyelids as he’s attacked by the bright flash of disposable cameras, and he really sort of hopes nobody ever sees these shots of him draping himself over Feuilly like a spider monkey. There’s even a moment when Courfeyrac and Jehan are kissing his cheeks on either side and he catches Grantaire’s eye, receiving an amused wink from him and a quirk of his lips.

It’s that vision of Grantaire that continues to follow Enjolras around for the rest of the night. It plays on his mind when they jostle back into the Musain and Musichetta gives them all a free shot, and it’s picking at his brain for the whole walk home when Grantaire has got his arms linked with Joly and Jehan and is skipping down the street, talking as though he’s stepped straight out of a period drama. Enjolras isn’t particularly listening, just hearing snippets of the conversation as he watches Grantaire still trying to move his hands animatedly as he talks, his hair bouncing with every movement.

“Jehan, my darling, our own literary genius,” Grantaire drawls, letting his head fall to Jehan’s shoulder. “Do you remember in Jane Eyre, that one quote? ‘I had not intended to love him’, then it goes on about something or another until that wonderfully horrible line: ‘he made me love him without looking at me’.” 

Grantaire wriggles his arms free so as to grasp both Jehan and Joly’s hands, and even from this distance Enjolras can see how hard he’s squeezing them. Enjolras isn’t thinking at all, he doesn’t have the right to listen to what Grantaire is saying and hope it’s ever about him – hope it’s ever something honestly _good_ about him. 

“I think even Jane Eyre would feel incredibly fucking sorry for me,” Grantaire continues, probably thinking that he’s speaking much quieter than he is. “It’s not fair that I’m so pathetically in love with someone who thinks I’m not worth the shit on their shoe. Does anyone deserve that? Even me?”

Enjolras blocks them out of his mind completely as Joly starts to hush Grantaire and coo over him, Jehan whispering into his ear with much more subtly than Grantaire had managed.

They all stumble back home together: the thirteen of them spread between Enjolras and Grantaire’s houses for the rest of the night. As soon as they get in, they all pour through Enjolras’ front door and fill the house with the sound of wild laughter and terrible singing. It’s impossible for anyone to be tired yet—not with the buzz that they’re all still riding—and the kitchen is raided by Bahorel and Feuilly in search of snacks. 

The snacks somehow become a full-scale meal; they make enough pasta to feed a small village but it still disappears completely over the space of two hours, and then Courfeyrac’s shockingly large ice cream stash becomes part of the communal feast too. It’s only at about four AM that Grantaire, Feuilly, and Bahorel drunkenly go back to their own home; taking Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta with them. 

Marius is already sleeping like a log on the sofa when Courfeyrac brings a couple of blankets and personally tucks him in, petting his hair and whispering odd endearments like, “Sweet dreams my little squashed pumpkin, shhh”. Jehan, desperately trying to hold back a fit of giggles, pulls him away and they go upstairs. Cosette kisses everyone goodnight before she curls around Marius and slips under the blankets with him. 

“Do you want my bed?” Combeferre asks Eponine, and Enjolras considers melting into the wall to avoid being present for this conversation.

“I’m not going to kick you out of your own room, the other end of the sofa will be just fine.” Eponine pats Combeferre’s shoulder with an entertained half-smile, but her expression shifts when she glances down at Marius and Cosette spooning, something glum creeping into her eyes for a moment. “On second thoughts, maybe I’ll just kick Grantaire out of his bed.” 

“ _Eponine_.” Even Enjolras stands up straighter at the tone of Combeferre’s voice – the kind that he’s been conditioned to know is the voice of reason and accepts no excuses. “I don’t mind, honestly, just stay. Please.” 

Enjolras tries to slowly edge out of the room when Eponine’s cheeks turn a faint shade of pink and Combeferre quickly shoves his hands in his pockets and scuffs his foot against the floor. He probably surprised himself, Enjolras thinks, probably hadn’t expected quite so blunt a request to leave his mouth. Drink will do that to people, Enjolras muses, and suddenly he has an absolutely terrible plan. 

Eponine shakes her head a little and heads off in the direction of the stairs as she says, “Well if you want me to stay then we’re bunking up – you’re not scared you’ll get cooties are you?” 

Enjolras takes one look at Combeferre’s blank face and gives him a pat on the shoulder that he hopes is comforting. “Have fun, buddy.”

“What did I just do, _Christ_.” Combeferre runs a hand through his hair before nodding at Enjolras, like a man making a resolute decision, and he disappears upstairs and into his bedroom.  

Enjolras, the only one awake in a living room that has definitely seen better days, rolls his hastily formed plan around in his mind. For once he pays absolutely no mind to the maze of dirty glasses and half-empty bottles on the floor (although most of them are probably drained, considering how very far from sober they all are). He doesn’t care one bit about the dishes piled up in the sink or the food left out on the counter or the unmistakeable smell of cigarette smoke that now permeates the house. 

He leaves the living room behind, taking the stairs three at a time as he sprints all the way to his own room and ignores the warning his spinning head gives him. He throws open the window and crawls through it, his bare feet feebly protesting the absolutely freezing surface of the roof as he strides over to the partition and hops straight over it. Enjolras hasn’t been out here for quite a while, but he’s rarely seen Grantaire’s window shut completely and he’s internally cursing why today has to be one of those days when he is so fuelled with burning purpose. 

Enjolras impatiently raps on the glass three times before Grantaire’s face appears on the other side, and Enjolras feels his pulse pick up, his head becoming just that little bit lighter as he lets himself get swallowed by those blue eyes. But even with Grantaire’s tired blinking and mussed hair right there, only on the other side of the window, Enjolras doesn’t let himself be deterred from what he’s planned to do. 

“You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met,” Enjolras says quickly when Grantaire has heaved the window open, and he looks as if he’s about to say something but Enjolras is already heaving himself into the room and putting himself right into Grantaire’s space.

Grantaire looks entirely dazed when Enjolras’ feet touch the floorboards and his hands instantly come up to cup both sides of his face. Enjolras focuses on the heat beneath his fingers and not the fear rushing through his veins as he wordlessly surges forwards and presses his mouth to Grantaire’s, determined to finish the kiss that Grantaire ran away from on Christmas Eve. He feels Grantaire go limp in his hold, feels the slump of his shoulders and the slackening of his jaw and the surprised sound that leaves his throat. 

But Grantaire doesn’t pull away or push him off, so Enjolras keeps kissing him until his lips feel numb and overworked at the same time, until he can memorise the dip and swell of Grantaire’s own lips and swallow the warmth of his breath, sharp with alcohol and a recent cigarette. Enjolras feels very hyperaware of everything around him: Grantaire’s eyelashes brushing against his skin and the touch of their noses before Grantaire edges back slightly. 

“What are you doing?” Grantaire asks quietly, his voice scratchy and careful as he very slowly looks up at Enjolras. “Did you just tumble through my window and kiss me half to death? Because I don’t—that’s not okay.” 

“Oh.” Enjolras frowns and nausea floods him as Grantaire’s words swirl around his ears. “I just—okay—I should go.” He doesn’t though. He can’t will himself to move a single inch towards that open window, towards the biting wind that is creeping in through it and turning his arms into gooseflesh. Or maybe that’s just Grantaire being so close, he’s not really sure. 

Enjolras is about eighty per cent sure that he doesn’t imagine Grantaire angling his face up ever so slightly, and there’s nothing that can’t be real about the parted lips only a breath away from his. He doesn’t mean to—he _knows_ he should be vacating with room with all the speed of a jungle cat—but aside from being well and truly drunk in the traditional sense, he feels intoxicated by Grantaire and the heat his body is giving off.

Enjolras leans in again and is stopped by moving lips: not forming a kiss, but words that he will probably be expected to understand. 

“What do you want from me?” Grantaire asks, barely a whisper but still conveying all the bewilderment of a scream. Enjolras’ hands slip away from his face and follow the curve of his neck to meet tense shoulders, until he pulls them back completely and lets his arms hang limp at his sides. 

Enjolras swallows around a thick lump in his throat, unable to look Grantaire quite in the eyes as he searches for the words – words that he hasn’t even found himself. “I don’t know. I haven’t done this—just—I want more.” 

Grantaire looks as though a light has been switched on in his head, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he wants to say something scathing or sharp, but he doesn’t. 

“So why are you in _my_ room?” 

Suddenly Enjolras wants to scream, he wants to grab Grantaire by the shoulders and shove him against a wall because there’s something he does not understand if he’s asking that question. He should have done that in the first place, he should have pinned Grantaire down and put a sock in his mouth so he wouldn’t be able to interrupt what Enjolras would have told him. 

But Enjolras’ blood is more alcohol than rational thought and this had seemed like a good idea when he’d run out of his living room, and now he can’t undo it and just pretend everything is normal. He can’t ask Grantaire to forget, because they already did that once and Enjolras felt like his insides were covered in paper cuts and bathing in vinegar. 

“Because you kissed me,” Enjolras says, because it’s likely the only thing he can say right now. 

Grantaire’s mouth twists downwards now and he tears his eyes away from Enjolras to stare straight past him. “And I told you – I was completely tweaked.” 

There’s bitterness in Grantaire’s voice that makes Enjolras’ frown deepen even more because he thought that maybe he was wrong—that he should try to be as optimistic about this as he is about everything else—and that everyone else was right. But his incessant worrying is pushed right to the back of his brain when Grantaire twists the fabric of his t-shirt in his hand and kisses him. 

It’s not like before; there’s no awkward fumbling that accompanies surprise, but it’s hot and fierce and hard and Grantaire is holding onto Enjolras’ shirt so tightly that he’ll find it stretched and wrinkled the next morning, as if Grantaire thinks Enjolras will float straight out of the window if he lets go. Enjolras feels his lungs empty as Grantaire’s tongue glides along his bottom lip, only to be replaced by a grazing of teeth and breathy sigh that must be his own. 

“There are rules,” Grantaire says against his mouth, pressing his thumb into the space just below Enjolras’ collarbone. 

“Rules?” 

“You’ve had some kind of sexual awakening – I get that.” Grantaire clears his throat and drags a hand back through his hair. “I don’t know why you’re choosing me and I probably don’t want to. But if we do _this_ ,” Grantaire nudges his nose next to Enjolras’ and the fingers on his shirt tighten, “then there have to be rules.” 

Enjolras nods blindly, not exactly sure of what’s happening, but Grantaire takes it as an indicator to continue. 

“Well can I just – can I ask you something first?” Enjolras nods again, not trusting anything to come out of his mouth, and Grantaire shifts backwards a little. “Do you really want this, do you want anything from me? Or are you just too drunk to think and feeling lonely after everyone being together tonight?” 

The softness of Grantaire’s words take Enjolras by surprise, and he ends up grabbing Grantaire’s wrist to keep him close as he says, “I want this – and not just for tonight.” He kisses the corner of Grantaire’s mouth gently and squeezes his wrist, distinctly aware of the fact that Grantaire has started to shake like a leaf. 

“Right, okay then.” Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut for a moment then walks around Enjolras to pick up a pack of cigarettes from his desk, slipping one into his mouth as he perches himself on the edge.

Enjolras knows better than to ask about Grantaire’s trembling fingers as he cups the lighter’s flame, so he swallows his curiosity and listens to the rest of what Grantaire has to say with a mild sense foreboding. 

“First off: we treat each other the way we normally do. I don’t want you getting weird and acting like I’m some delicate flower because you feel bad for me, or whatever. Which brings me to rule number two.” Enjolras opens his mouth to interrupt, but Grantaire bolts towards him and has a hand clasped over his mouth before he can say anything. “Don’t you dare pretend you have feelings for me because you think you’re doing me a favour or some equally ridiculous crap. I won’t believe it, and you don’t need to tell me you love me just because you want a fuck.” 

Grantaire has stopped talking to take a few desperate drags on his cigarette, but Enjolras has lost the inclination to speak now. Grantaire removes his hand and goes back to sit on the desk, giving all of his attention to his cigarette. Enjolras feels a heavy weight in his stomach: the dread of a misunderstanding that has surpassed any other they’ve had. Grantaire thinks he’s only looking for some kind of fuck buddy, and by some horrifically cruel twist of fate he is completely oblivious to the fact that Enjolras doesn’t just want more: he wants _everything_. 

But what stops Enjolras from speaking up is the way Grantaire had been listing off those rules – as though any hint of emotions in this are completely forbidden, that it’s purely physical. And Enjolras can understand how that might appeal to someone like Grantaire: sex without having to chase someone, right on his doorstep (or on the other side of the wall), and maybe even a way to let off the steam he builds up while arguing with Enjolras. And the more Enjolras thinks about that, the more it seems like a logical thing to do. 

In all honesty Enjolras just doesn’t have time for a relationship. The hours that he doesn’t spend in work or at Amnesty are spent keeping his friendships functional and working on his own political ideas. He barely has enough time to sleep as it is, so what on earth made him think he could handle a _boyfriend_? Boyfriend. Fucking Christ. Even the word sounds trivial. Maybe this is what he needs: a physical relationship with Grantaire. God knows it’s the only one that he could possibly make work – and even then he’s counting on Grantaire to be the one who knows what they’re doing. He’s never really wanted to date anyone before—never mind dreaming about falling into bed with them and waking up to a familiar face every day—so this is as good a warning as any. 

When he’d come sprinting up those stairs he was making a mistake. He’s seeing that now. He can’t afford the distraction of trying to make a relationship (with Grantaire of all people) run smoothly and comfortably. But he also can’t deny that he does want to do _things_ to Grantaire—all sorts of things—and he’s being given a golden opportunity right now. That’s what he tells himself as Grantaire now watches him expectantly and practically vibrates on the spot. 

“That sounds reasonable,” Enjolras says evenly, despite the words seeming to carve a fist-sized hole in his gut: digging out a gaping hole where he’s trying to bury every sentimental feeling he has for Grantaire. 

Grantaire nods, his lips pressed into a thin line as smoke pours out of his nose instead. “Are you sure? I mean – I didn’t read this completely wrong? I didn’t jump to some embarrassingly far off conclusion did I?” He looks at Enjolras almost delicately, but there’s a strange vulnerability in his face that Enjolras doesn’t dare prod. “This is what you want, right?” 

Enjolras swallows his feelings: every single one. He nods, because he realises that he’d like to have Grantaire in any way he can, any way that he is allowed to – and this is what he’s being allowed. He’s hurt, of course he is, but trying desperately not to think about it. Instead, he’s thinking of all the new parts of Grantaire he’s going to get to see – the things that are special and intimate and only select people have seen. It’s enough to make him smile at Grantaire, and he hopes it doesn’t look as tight as it feels. 

“Can we uh, keep this between us? You know how our friends are and I—” Enjolras is almost thankful when Grantaire cuts him off, because he doesn’t know how he’d even begin to explain that he needs this to be a secret so nobody can convince him that he’s doing the wrong thing, or give him pitying looks and pep talks more than they already do. 

“Don’t worry about it, your secret’s safe with me.” Grantaire says, not quite bitterly. He stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray on the desk before looking up at Enjolras with a smile that makes his heart flip. 

“I should go to bed,” Enjolras says offhandedly, and Grantaire pushes off the desk so that he can use it as a platform to get back out the window. But before he leaves, Enjolras grabs Grantaire by the elbow and kisses him softly. It’s different to any of the other times: an unhurried meeting of lips that are finally moving in unison. “Night, Grantaire.”

Enjolras collapses into bed a few minutes later with his stomach churning, but the taste of smoke and someone else’s toothpaste still lingers in his mouth as a reminder of what he’s just done.


	10. eye of a storm

When Enjolras wakes up and tries to get himself upright, he immediately feels like the entire world is spinning like a carousel around him and he resigns himself back to the safety of his pillow. If the first day of the New Year is any indicator for the rest of days, he has a large cause for concern. Since the novelty of his first year at university wore off, he really hadn’t bothered to indulge in drinking to excess, honestly preferring to look after his friends and return them home safely instead. But apparently he is surrounded by a multitude of bad influences now, and a larger group just means more people to badger him into _letting loose_ , and he’s trying not to look like an old fart ruining everyone’s fun all the time.

He really resents that change at times like this – when he’s waking up with a hangover that makes him feel like death served up on a plate. But as he becomes reasonably accustomed to the pounding headache and nausea that sits bubbling between his chest and throat, the cogs in his brain start to work again and he can only think of what he did _before_ tumbling into bed with one trouser leg still on. That nauseous feeling expands in his throat as he remembers how he’d hauled himself through Grantaire’s window and practically pounced on him without even considering the consequences. 

( _That was the whole point_ , a sullen part of him helpfully provides, and Enjolras is—as usual—impossibly annoyed at his drunken self.) 

He hadn’t had the strength to fully shut his window last night, so Enjolras has the duvet pulled right over his head in a futile attempt to conserve some warmth. It doesn’t help much – the duvet itself feels icy to touch and there’s a vicious breeze forcing its way into room, and he’s not sure when he could last feel his fingers and toes. It’s pretty much as horrific as it can get, because all Enjolras wants to do is mope and brood in the warm comfort of his bed, but it’s simply impossible to immerse himself in wallowing when all he can think about is how much he’s shivering. 

There’s only one thing for it, he decides, and he keeps the duvet wrapped tightly around him as he shakily gets out of bed. It’s upon standing up that Enjolras realises he is very much still drunk from the night before, and he’s hardly surprised when he considers that they were all still drinking at four in the morning. Enjolras squints at the clock on his watch and groans when he sees the time: nine o’clock. Even when sober he can’t exactly call himself a morning person (in other words Combeferre has to physically drag him out of bed at midday if he doesn’t set an alarm on weekends). Enjolras has to work tomorrow though and be of some use at Amnesty, and after the diminishing number of staff that the holiday period brought about he’ll be busier than usual, so he fully intends on taking the entire day to recuperate. 

Five minutes later (after he’s stumbled to the bathroom—almost falling down the stairs in the process—and gulped down two glasses of water with an aspirin) he’s kneeling on the floor and half-inside his wardrobe. A few years ago Courfeyrac had bought the three of them oversized onesies as a novelty present, but Enjolras is sure that Courfeyrac is the only one who was so excited about it. In fact, he’s pretty certain that Marie has stolen Combeferre’s owl one, and Enjolras is looking for his own somewhere buried in the recesses of the wardrobe. He knows he packed it in the moving boxes – mostly out habit because he slips into it when he feels atrociously ill and needs the extra comfort. Courfeyrac knows this, because he’d always don his own (a pink bunny rabbit, for reasons still unknown to Enjolras) when he’d come over to make Enjolras soup and a hot water bottle and climb into bed with him. Since university though, Enjolras has made a particular effort not to get sick in the slightest, lest he fall behind and miss important lectures or seminars (even though everybody knows it wouldn’t affect him in the slightest, and he’d still easily surpass everyone else on his course). And this is why he ends up tossing a dozen items of forgotten clothing about his bedroom before he pulls out the onesie and swaps yesterday’s clothes for it. 

Enjolras has no idea why it’s a cat, and Courfeyrac hadn’t done much to enlighten him the one time he asked (“What do you mean _why is mine a cat_? You’re more of a cat than Combeferre’s actual cat is! People think you’re cold but we all know you love to snuggle and be petted – also I think you’ve legitimately hissed at me before”). But something about it makes him feel a little less horrible when he’s safely inside of it, and he’s probably conditioned to find it a source of comfort by now. 

Enjolras scrubs at his eyes as he attempts the stairs again, hoping for a more successful trip this time, and he stops on the second floor and quietly edges open Courfeyrac’s door, so as not to wake Jehan (or even Combeferre next door). 

“Courf?” Enjolras stands hesitantly by the door and tries to see if Courfeyrac is anywhere close to awake. Jehan is wrapped around him like a gangly spider monkey, one leg swung over the duvet and his face hidden in Courfeyrac’s neck. 

“Hmm?” Courfeyrac blearily opens his eyes and blinks a few times before Enjolras comes into focus. “Oh.” 

Courfeyrac puts a hand to Jehan’s jaw and says a few quiet things to him that Enjolras doesn’t hear, but then Jehan is shuffling over to one side and Courfeyrac pulls the duvet back. 

“Come on, hop in.” Courfeyrac pats the space between him and Jehan with a sleepy smile, and his eyes are still working on staying open as Enjolras pads over and crawls into bed. “What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t want to wake Jehan up, is this okay?” But Jehan just lazily clings to Enjolras in place of Courfeyrac, and he makes a humming sound of approval against Enjolras’ shoulder. 

“He sleeps like the dead, it’s fine,” Courfeyrac says softly, and out of habit he presses the back of his hand to Enjolras’ forehead and strokes the hair back from his face. “What is it – you’re not ill, are you?” 

“No.” Enjolras relaxes into the repetitive motion of Courfeyrac’s fingers gently combing through his hair, and some of the nausea in his throat starts to settle down. “It’s – it’s Grantaire.” 

“Was last night a bit much?” 

He’s referring to the companionable way in which Grantaire and Enjolras got on – managing to avoid any serious arguments or hurtful bickering for so many prolonged, boisterous hours. Enjolras hadn’t really even thought about that (his mind is still stuck somewhere in Grantaire’s darkened bedroom, reliving the memory of Grantaire’s face lit only by the moonlight and a dim bedside lamp), but he supposes that last night _had_ been hard to swallow. 

There’s something very overwhelming about being able to have a nice time with Grantaire: to feel giddy and jittery in his presence, to drink in the sight of him seeming very happy himself. It’s hard for Enjolras to realise that a person can make him feel that way, never mind that person being Grantaire – never mind knowing that person doesn’t want anything more than that. Not in terms of a relationship anyway. He’s not sure that sex counts: after all, sex is just a recreational activity for Grantaire.

So feeling twice as glum, Enjolras nods and shuts his eyes. “I don’t really want to talk about it.” 

“That’s alright,” Courfeyrac says as he shuffles closer to Enjolras, just so that they’re pressed together with their legs twisted around each other. 

“Boys are dumb,” Jehan mumbles into Enjolras’ shoulder, and Enjolras can’t be sure that he’s not muttering in his sleep but regardless Jehan holds him a little tighter.

“We’re going to sleep until at least midday, and then I’ll heat up some soup and chips and we’ll watch Adventure Time all afternoon. Alright?” Enjolras nods again and Courfeyrac kisses his cheek and calls him kitten before dropping off. 

For a few minutes Enjolras just lies there in the secure embrace of Courfeyrac and Jehan. He absently wonders if this is why Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly work so well: Musichetta safely tucked between her boys and finding it almost impossible to feel lonely in their arms, Joly and Bossuet eager to radiate twice the amount of love and affection. In the same way, Enjolras still feels very sorry for himself, but he can’t be weighed down by any sense of isolation – not when he’s got the warm bodies of two of his best friends on either side of him. 

\----

Life goes on and Enjolras moves with it.

He’s busy—he’s always busy—there’s nothing new there. And he’s grateful for the distraction when everyone else has returned to classes or work and he’s left alone with his own thoughts.

Despite their agreement, nothing significant has even begun to happen between Enjolras and Grantaire, and Enjolras puts this down to the fact that he’s barely _seen_ Grantaire lately. He’s supposedly working on a series of commissions for someone who’s wealthy enough not to bat an eyelid at the thought that they’re almost definitely overpaying him. That’s what Grantaire tells them all, and he dismisses them quickly when they start reminding him that he doesn’t charge even _half_ of what he should in the first place.

When Grantaire stops showing up at the Musain for days at a time—even missing the meeting—Enjolras voices a feeble worry. Feuilly assures the group that it’s fine: Grantaire always gets like this when he has an important commission that’s interesting enough for him not to half-ass it. But then a week goes by and Enjolras still hasn’t had a single moment alone with Grantaire since their lips were pressed together in a drunken kiss. 

There’s been an agonising nagging inside of Enjolras since those early hours – one that refuses to be ignored or cast aside. That same persistent nagging, coupled with the strange uneasiness of not having Grantaire around, is how Enjolras ends up pacing around the break room at work with his mobile pressed to his ear.

“Hello?” 

Enjolras has to stop himself from releasing a sigh of relief when he hears Grantaire’s voice, that one word unknotting something that had been coiled woefully tight within Enjolras’ chest.

“Hi, it’s Enjolras. I just um, I was wondering if—” and just like that, Enjolras freezes mid-sentence. It occurs to him that this is the first time he’s ever called Grantaire, which is honestly quite ridiculous considering many months they’ve been friends now and just much time they spend together. But if Enjolras has ever needed to contact Grantaire texts have always sufficed, and if he was in a group then he just simply wouldn’t be the one to call up Grantaire and tell him to come meet them. “You’re not busy are you? Is this a bad time?” Enjolras asks suddenly, feeling more than a little guilty.

“Nope, I’m on my lunch break,” Grantaire says around what sounds like a mouthful of food. “What do you need, is something wrong?” There’s a gentle hesitancy to his voice that Enjolras isn’t sure what to do with, but he forces himself to plough on anyway.

Grantaire works in an art supplies shop somewhere in central London, but even if Grantaire were willing to sacrifice his lunch break to see Enjolras there probably wouldn’t be enough time for him to get there, have a serious discussion, and come back within his own break. “I just wanted to talk about some things. About the other night, and um, you know. Things.” 

“Oh,” Grantaire sounds more than a little surprised, and Enjolras can picture his wide blinking eyes as he says it. “You could come down to the shop, or um, I’m meeting Cosette for coffee after my shift. She wouldn’t mind if you tagged along, and she’s got a late class a while after that so we could talk then.” 

Enjolras fights the urge to squirm. He’ll be nothing short of frazzled with Cosette acting as a friendly barrier between him and Grantaire, and she’s very likely to pick up on that sort of thing. He really doesn’t want to make a skittish fool out of himself while Grantaire goes on acting cool as a cucumber, rubbing it in Enjolras’ face that he’s the only one with a crippling, stupid crush here.

Enjolras can imagine the look Combeferre would give him if he knew what was happening, and it installs at least a little bit of strength in him: enough to ask where and when he should find him.

 

Enjolras’ shift finishes twenty minutes later than Grantaire’s, but he still chooses to walk to the café rather than take the tube. The thought alone of having to be compressed into a tiny carriage while he was already having trouble breathing steadily, his mind fixed on all the things that could go wrong, was just too much to bear. So he wraps up in a thick scarf, gloves, and his duffle coat and braves the late afternoon chill outside. 

It ends up being only a fifteen minute walk but the café is discreetly tucked away somewhere and Google maps fails him entirely as he tries to navigate a maze of wonky backstreets. He ends up texting Grantaire for directions, who sends him back a shockingly accurate guide in the space in thirty seconds, and Enjolras worries his lip with his teeth when he realises there’s absolutely no emotion to the texts – the full stop at the end seeming somehow foreboding. 

It’s a quaint place that is worlds away from the Musain, but still manages to radiate the same sort of inviting comfort out of it’s fogged windows and fairy lights hanging behind the glass. Enjolras only peers through looking for Grantaire for a moment, before deciding to grow up and go inside. He orders a pot of tea, looking around for a dishevelled man with a pristine girl, and sure enough finds Grantaire and Cosette huddled around a table in one corner. 

Cosette spots him just as he makes his way over and starts waving enthusiastically, swiftly dragging her chair across the floor to whisper something into Grantaire’s ear. 

“What are you working on?” Enjolras asks as he sits down, peeling off his gloves and scarf.

“Tattoo design for Cosette,” Grantaire mumbles, not looking up from the A4 sketchbook he’s got out on the table, his hand drawing painstakingly precise lines in black pen over a more chaotic sketch.

Cosette grins and tries to look over Grantaire’s shoulder, but is quickly elbowed away with a slight grunt. She settles back into her seat and picks up her mug of hot chocolate instead, looking like a pastel angel all bundled up in layers and layers of knitwear. She just misses out on being powder-princess when she puts her feet up on Enjolras’ lap – big, clumpy, brown leather boots thudding down dangerously near to his crotch. 

He’s sure he doesn’t imagine Cosette raising her eyebrows in warning when he flinches. Cosette is a force to be reckoned with when she thinks she knows something, and he really hopes—for his _and_ Grantaire’s sakes—that she doesn’t. 

“What is it?” Enjolras inquires, rearranging Cosette’s feet to give himself some peace of mind. 

“A lark,” she replies proudly, tipping her chin up smugly as Enjolras cranes his neck to see the drawing.

“It’s not _just_ a lark! Do you think I’ve got cramp in three fingers from _just a lark_?” Grantaire says indignantly, and Enjolras can barely see his face on account of how he’s hunched over and hidden under a mop of hair, but he can imagine the affronted look on Grantaire’s face and he barely manages to suppress a snort. “It’s a fucking majestic lark inside of a Victorian frame, with bloody flowers and everything!” 

“Don’t forget the quote from Jehan’s poem,” Cosette adds sweetly, and she tilts back on her chair precariously to kiss the top of Grantaire’s head. “And I’m very grateful indeed, thank you. In fact, my gratitude will be permanently imprinted on my right thigh.”

“Does Marius know about this?” Enjolras wonders aloud, and Cosette’s smile is positively devious.

“It’ll be a surprise,” she grins, and the face she pulls in an attempt to look harmless is the one that worries Enjolras the most.

He snorts and taps Cosette’s knee with his index finger. “Does your dad know about this?” 

“Of course not – but he’ll get over the initial shock and learn to love it. Just like he did with Marius.” She looks at Enjolras without a hint of doubtfulness and reaches over to the bowl in the middle of the table, tossing a sugar cube into her mouth.

Grantaire finally caps his pen and sits up, eyes glancing over the two of them with a fond sort of exasperation. “Didn’t your dad practically go into cardiac arrest when he found out about Marius?” 

“ _Grantaire_!” 

“It’s true – Gavroche saw the whole thing and told us,” Enjolras pitches in, and Cosette very deliberately digs her heel into his thigh in warning, reminding him that she’s a good target where testicles are involved. 

“Not to mention,” Grantaire continues, stretching his legs out under the table and crossing them at the ankle, “Marius is just a poor weakling of a boy that your ex-convict father could very easily dispose of; whereas a tattoo would be tainting the delicate skin of his only daughter.”

Cosette looks utterly unimpressed by the saccharine smile Grantaire gives her, fluttering his eyelashes ridiculously until she throws a sugar cube that hits him right in the centre of his forehead. 

“You two are terrible—the actual worst—you’re perfect for each other,” Cosette grumbles, and Grantaire not so subtly chokes on a sip of coffee.

“And you’re a complete nuisance,” Enjolras chides as he finally pours himself a cup of tea. He makes a point of ignoring Grantaire’s dramatic wail of pain as he drops in three sugar cubes, and Enjolras considers throwing a fourth at Grantaire as well. 

“I’m an angel,” Cosette sighs innocently, cupping her chin in her hands as she rests her elbows on the table. “Speaking of which, how do you like my new hair colour? I think I’m finally as blonde as you now.” She shakes her hair out of the knot on top of her head and lets it all tumble down in her face. 

When Enjolras had first met Cosette her hair had been a mousey brown, much like Eponine’s natural colour was too, but instead of getting darker Cosette’s hair had just progressively gotten lighter over time. He still remembers the day when Marius had walked into the Musain in a daze, mumbling about Cosette positively glowing and how he didn’t realise she could be any more radiant. She’d skipped in some time later, pulling off a hat to reveal her strawberry blonde locks. Then a couple of months later Jehan and her had come in arm in arm, giggling into each other’s shoulders before he presented a golden-blonde Cosette to the group. 

“Dear god, you could pass for brother and sister at this rate,” Grantaire splutters, and upon closer inspection Enjolras is sure that Grantaire is probably right. 

Cosette holds up a spoon in front of them and they stare at their inverted reflection, heads tilted to the side as they take this information in.

“It’s actually quite disturbing, I’m not sure I can handle this,” Grantaire continues, seeming to suppress a shudder. “Either one of you alone is terrifying enough, but the world is not ready for you to team up as fake power-siblings. 

“Oh button it, you.” Cosette throws an arm around Enjolras’ neck and kisses him lightly on the cheek, giving his hair a quick ruffle just to make him scowl. “Is that my design done then? I have to get to New Cross by five-thirty and I’ll be screwed if the trains are late.” Grantaire slides it over to her and she slots it into a plastic folder in her handbag. “Thank you _so_ much,” Cosette croons, moving to kiss Grantaire on the cheek and squeeze him in a brief hug before making her exit. 

Silence quickly drifts over Enjolras’ and Grantaire, not one that is oppressively uncomfortable, but it’s still a little awkward all the same. Enjolras refills his tea and pokes at the sugar cubes as they gradually dissolve, while Grantaire packs his pens, pencils, and sketchbook into a bag.

“How are you?” Enjolras asks, meaning it as more than empty small talk. Grantaire looks tired, and worryingly more so than usual. The shadows that usually sit beneath his eyes are darker, even more obvious against a renewed pallor to his skin. 

Grantaire shrugs, giving Enjolras a noncommittal smile as he drains the last of his coffee. “Fine enough. I’ve almost finished the commission, so I can go back to a vaguely human life in a few days.” 

Enjolras’ mouth twists before he can restrain the small movement, and he knows Grantaire sees it because he looks away instantly. “Uh, how’s everything at work?”

Grantaire only rolls his eyes and sits up straighter. He leans forward with his forearms on the table, and pierces Enjolras with a gaze that makes his stomach work itself into knots. 

“Are we going to talk, or are did you walk all the way here just to ask me boring questions you don’t care about?”

Enjolras baulks at the suggestion, because he _does_ care, even if he maybe gives the frequent impression that he doesn’t. He swallows that stab of guilt in favour of what he came for though, and he reminds himself that he’s doing what’s best for them both. “I wanted to know if you were still sure about…what we agreed.” 

Something flickers in Grantaire’s eyes and he starts pulling the sleeves of his ratty jumper over his hands, before he softly says: “Of course I’m still sure. Are you?”

Enjolras nods, watching as Grantaire seems to fold in on himself, making himself as small as possible in the space. Enjolras shuffles his chair a little closer to Grantaire so that their knees are almost touching, and his hand twitches to reach out and rest on Grantaire’s knee, but Enjolras clamps it into a fist instead. “Can we just, do this slowly though? One thing at a time—” 

Grantaire snaps back into action then, looking up at Enjolras as he quickly cuts in to say, “Of course! We can go at your own pace, see how it goes.” 

Enjolras tries not to feel guilty about this having more to do with his greediness—of not wanting this thing with Grantaire to happen once or a couple of times before it comes to an end—and less with him feeling comfortable with Grantaire. He’s quite sure that he’d let Grantaire do whatever he wanted to him; especially with the way he’s looking at Enjolras so earnestly and chewing on his lip. 

“I’m clean, by the way,” Grantaire says suddenly, and when Enjolras doesn’t say anything Grantaire takes this as a sign to continue. “I haven’t been with anyone since I last got tested and I know the way your mind works—you’re probably keeping yourself up at night thinking I’m a stupid junkie who’ll do anything for a fix—but I always use my own kit and I never share needles. So you don’t – there’s nothing to worry about.” 

Enjolras stares at him dumbfounded for a minute, more concerned by the fact that it _hadn’t_ crossed his mind, which is pretty fucking worrying when it comes down to it.  

“I don’t think—” Enjolras begins, not quiet sure how to process that onslaught on information, but Grantaire cuts in straight away. 

“I don’t need your pity,” he says with more bite, but then he rubs his eyes and runs his hands through his hair, looking up at the ceiling with a frown. “I’m just telling you I’m careful. I would never do something like that to you – put you at that kind of risk.” 

“Oh. Thank you.” It doesn’t feel like the right thing to say, but it’s the most coherent thing Enjolras can manage. And he _hates_ that. He hates that Grantaire constantly reduces him to a stammering mess and that it’s just getting worse as time goes on. 

Enjolras is working up to say something more, but his phone starts to vibrate in his pocket insistently. He takes a look and finds a couple of emails from Amnesty, asking if he can make it to the office for an emergency – something about another volunteer having dropped out and whether he can take on some of their work.

“Everything alright?” Grantaire asks after Enjolras still hasn’t said anything and is just drumming his fingers on the table with a creased brow.

Enjolras shakes himself to attention and looks at Grantaire gnawing on his thumbnail on the other side of the table, watching Enjolras back with a skittish look in his eye. 

“I have to go,” Enjolras sighs, and he fiddles with a loose thread on his scarf in his lap. “Something important came up at work and I really have to be there.” 

Grantaire smiles at him at him then, seeming to switch instantly back to his normal self in a flash. “Well don’t stay on my account, I’m sure I can look after myself.” 

“ _Right_ ,” Enjolras scoffs, but he’s grinning at the dramatic look of shock on Grantaire’s face. “See you later – and do look after yourself, okay?” 

“Yeah alright, mum.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and slips his coat on, shaking his head as he leaves feeling lightest he’s been all year. 

\---- 

“I’ll get it!” 

Enjolras jumps to his feet, taking any opportunity to get away from the film that Courfeyrac has chosen for a quiet night in. Courfeyrac appears to have given up hope and doesn’t seem to mind – he’s been having to throw jelly babies at Enjolras every time his indignant snorting turns into a running commentary. 

Enjolras opens the door to find Grantaire leaning casually against the doorframe with a glass of red wine in one hand. Feuilly and Bahorel are standing just behind him with suspiciously angelic expressions of both of their faces. 

“Can we come over for dinner?” Grantaire asks, skipping the preamble while he smiles sweetly. 

Enjolras eyes all three of them carefully. Feuilly seems to be holding a bottle of the rest of Grantaire’s wine, and well as another full bottle of white. Bahorel on the other hand just has his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoody. 

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “Why?” 

Feuilly now looks rather sheepish, while Grantaire just sighs heavily and takes a sip of wine. “We appear to have run out of food.” 

“So go shopping?” 

“So we might have spent the last of our money on a record player and honestly it’s not a big deal at all. So if you could just—” 

“Just one dinner, _please_ ,” Bahorel pleads, and next to him Feuilly presses his palms together like a prayer.  “Combeferre makes the best pasta bake in the world and I can smell it from here – don’t make us have pound saver burgers from McDonalds instead!” 

“Oh alright, come on then.” Enjolras leaves the door open and lets them file in after him into the living room. “These lot are joining us for dinner, so unfortunately we won’t be eating leftover pasta bake for the next week.”

“Rude,” Combeferre calls out from where he’s now sprawled out into Enjolras’ spot on the sofa, his legs flopped over Courfeyrac’s lap. “That’s the last time I slave away at cooking you a decent meal,” he continues to mutter, before throwing a few pieces of popcorn at Enjolras. 

“We brought the booze, so it’s hardly even charity – just a friendly exchange.” Bahorel flops down onto the other end of the sofa (and Enjolras has never been so grateful for the oversized corner sofa that his parents allowed him to swipe from their house). 

“Oh yes, wine! Enjolras, be a darling and grab some glasses, would you?” Courfeyrac says, flapping his hand in Enjolras’ general direction without taking his eyes off the television. 

Enjolras mutters something about not being Courfeyrac’s slave and gets another pelting of jelly babies at the back of his head on his way to the kitchen. He comes back with five glasses and the half-full bottle of red wine that was left over from last night when Jehan stopped by. The only space left on the sofa is between Bahorel and Grantaire, and Enjolras supposes he could just pull a chair up from the kitchen, but he’d really rather not when a comfortable leather sofa is _just there._  

There are two problems with this. First, the lights are all switched off and of course it’s pitch black outside, so naturally Enjolras stumbles over someone’s feet and ends up half in Grantaire’s lap when he does manage to sit down. The other problem is that Bahorel is built like a brick shithouse and his casual slouch means the space is much smaller than he’d hoped, and Enjolras is squashed right up against Grantaire’s side with the bare skin of their arms touching. 

No conversation passes between the two of them for the next ten minutes, even though the others are all making jokes at the film or saying lines out loud in time with the characters. Enjolras laughs at Courfeyrac’s ridiculous jokes and Feuilly’s sarcastic comments, but he has no idea what is happening on the screen because he’s trying to focus on taking periodic sips of wine while Grantaire’s body heat seeps into his side. 

“Enjolras?” 

Grantaire’s voice is torturously close, a hushed whisper right by his ear that raises the hair on the back of his neck. “Yeah?” 

“Why are you wearing pyjamas at seven o’clock on a Saturday evening?” 

Enjolras turns just enough to see Grantaire holding in a laugh, his mouth turned up in a teasing smirk. “They’re comfortable,” he mumbles, glancing down at his red flannel pyjama bottoms. “Besides, you’re one to talk: do you ever _not_ wear pyjamas when you’re at home?” 

“Touché.”

Enjolras’ ears do not heat up when Grantaire lifts one eyebrow, flashing his teeth in a smile. He does not have butterflies in his stomach from the way Grantaire is looking at him, as if he’s the only thing Grantaire cares about looking at full stop. 

The next thirty minutes are spent with Enjolras trying not to squirm under Grantaire’s attention and all the things he says quietly into his ear. It’s the most painful and wonderful movie experience he’s ever had, but by the time Combeferre switches the lights on again Enjolras’ face is as red as a strawberry. Combeferre doesn’t say anything, but he does give him one of those Looks, one that seems to say, _what on earth is wrong with you and what have you done_. 

Dinner is nice. That’s the only way Enjolras can think to put it: nice to all squeeze around one table; nice to have dinner with more of his friends; nice to have Grantaire’s thigh brushing his, even if it’s only because of the lack of space. He feels well fed and content and a little sleepy, and for a while they all just sit there praising Combeferre’s pasta bake, who looks happily smug. 

“Can we see this record player then?” Combeferre asks, and Feuilly perks up in his chair. 

“Quick trip to ours to have a listen?” 

“Grantaire made us buy a Prince album, but we got a Bob Dylan one too.” Feuilly shoots Grantaire a look of great disappointment, before standing up to stretch his arms above his head with a yawn. 

“Hey! Bahorel wanted Prince as well!” Grantaire says defensively, before adding, “You’ll be thanking me when you’re struck with artistic inspiration like nothing you’ve ever felt before, just you wait!” 

They all sort their plates into a pile and get ready to leave, but Enjolras hangs back. At first he’s just distracted by Grantaire’s black t-shirt, which unlike usual, doesn’t hang off his shoulders and sit baggily on his bones, but instead hugs tightly to his skin in a way that Enjolras is not prepared to handle right now. And that’s not even taking into consideration the jeans – skinny and fitted in an obscene way, the denim slipping down his backside to show the waistband of his underwear.

Honestly, it just shouldn’t be allowed. 

“I think I’m going to stay here – the dishwasher’s full so I’d better do the washing up,” Enjolras says suddenly, and Courfeyrac squints at him oddly. 

Grantaire looks at Enjolras once, but for the life of him Enjolras cannot decipher what Grantaire is thinking. 

“Do you want some help?” 

At first Enjolras is about to say no—maybe it’s instinct not to let Grantaire help, considering how little responsibility he allows him to have with the ABC—but then he sees Grantaire’s hands flexing and curling at his sides.

“Um, yeah.” 

Courfeyrac’s expression contorts into even more confusion, but he doesn’t linger long on the exchange, instead heading out the door with the others and a loud, _suit yourselves_. 

They do the dishes in silence, one that’s not altogether uncomfortable, but feels charged nonetheless. Enjolras washes the plates and the pasta dish in the sink, while Grantaire stands next to him and dries everything, before putting them away into the cupboards. Enjolras wants to say something, _anything_ , but he knows that he doesn’t have the words this situation calls for. God, what even _is_ this situation – he’s starting to think he needs a handbook on how to do this. 

Enjolras dries his hands on a tea towel and turns to Grantaire, who is leaning back on the counter and appears to be very focused on scratching his forearm. Enjolras takes a couple of steps towards him until Grantaire is practically pinned in. He looks up, eyebrows raised in question; but Enjolras has a question of his own. 

“When are you going to kiss me again?” 

Grantaire freezes in place and his eyes widen as he blinks up at Enjolras, his tongue coming out to wet his lips. “Do you want me to?” He asks quietly, and Enjolras takes another step forward, tilting his head to one side. 

“Isn’t that the whole point of this?” 

Grantaire smiles briefly: a small nervous twitch of his expression. He nods and waits a moment, before reaching up to kiss Enjolras on the mouth quickly: a fleeting touch of lips before he pulls away again. 

Before Grantaire can get far, Enjolras fists a hand in the front of his t-shirt and yanks him back into place, kissing him with enough force that Grantaire lets out a muffled squeak. 

Enjolras knows that his inexperience shows—after all, a few kisses spread out over college and university don’t amount to much when it comes down to it—but Grantaire more than makes up for his clumsiness. Grantaire slows his frantic lips down, fits their mouths together in drawn out, unhurried movements that make Enjolras wrap a hand around his neck to bring him closer. 

Grantaire kisses like he moves: purposeful and carnal while making it seem like he’s hardly even trying to break Enjolras apart cell by cell. Grantaire’s tongue sliding alongside his at a cruelly slow pace feels like some kind of blissful torture, and it’s all Enjolras can do to moan quietly and pull Grantaire closer still. 

With that one yank of encouragement, Grantaire plasters himself over Enjolras as if the very air between them is offensive. Enjolras lets heat overtake his body, his head dizzying as the edge of the counter digs painfully into a knob on his spine, but finding it altogether impossible to care when there’s Grantaire right here: his hands trailing up and down Enjolras’ sides and his teeth tugging at Enjolras’ lip to pull a desperate sound from him. Enjolras feels completely delirious: lost in the notion of Grantaire’s clever mouth proving just how many ways it can be clever. 

At first, Enjolras barely notices Grantaire nudging his legs apart so he can press even closer; he’s busy gasping at the electric sensation of Grantaire’s calloused fingers skimming underneath the hem of his shirt, one hand experimentally mapping out the skin from waist to hip. And then he’s focused on the other hand: Grantaire weaving it through the back of his hair, nails gentle scratching Enjolras’ scalp before his whole head is tugged back by a handful of curls. 

“Oh, fuck—” Enjolras breathes, his voice a shaky rasp as his entire body jolts at the faint sting of his head. It’s glorious—something that Enjolras has never considered he’d be into—but quickly lost among the onslaught of new touches. Grantaire’s mouth is _everywhere_ , leaving open-mouthed kisses that begin with Enjolras’ jaw and continue down the length of his neck, a mixture of lips and tongue and teeth that has Enjolras digging his nails into the back of Grantaire’s neck. 

“You’re fucking killing me – _Jesus_ , Enjolras,” Grantaire groans, and the low rumble of his voice against Enjolras’ throat has him shuddering. 

“Just—touch me—please.” Enjolras is not prepared to admit that he practically whines those words, but Grantaire obliges him with such quick dexterity that it almost knocks Enjolras off his feet. 

With one movement, the hand that Grantaire had been running along Enjolras’ side moves to grip insistently at his hip instead, and Grantaire surges forwards until their bodies are slotted tightly together and they’ve both got one thigh between the other’s legs. Enjolras gasps at the sudden contact, a shock of pleasure careening beneath his skin as he feels the outline of Grantaire’s erection through his jeans.

Which, _shit_ , okay, that’s definitely more than he’d hoped for when Grantaire offered to help with the dishes. And Enjolras only manages to retain his dignity for less than a second, because even though he’d been thanking all that is wonderful in the world that he’s wearing baggy pyjama pants that very aptly hide how hard he’s been for the past five minutes, Grantaire rolls his hips in a way that has their cocks pressed against one another.

Enjolras is sure he is about to burst into flames or melt into a puddle at any moment, because even through the several layers of fabric between them, there’s just enough friction to make him moan a little too loudly. He’s halfway to considering whether he should go the whole nine yards and wrap his legs around Grantaire’s waist, let Grantaire hold him up against the counter until his back is bruised from that hard edge, when the front door slams loudly and the house fills up with voices. 

“We should watch another movie – I really don’t feel like using my time wisely tonight.” 

And that’s definitely Courfeyrac over the others, the rest of their voices getting louder as they move through the house, and Grantaire belatedly springs away once Enjolras squeezes his shoulder and hisses in his ear. 

“Only if it’s Tarantino!” Bahorel shouts, and he must be in the bathroom because a door slams shortly afterwards.

Enjolras, wobbling on his feet and breathing heavily, pushes up from the sink and quickly tries to straighten his clothes out. When Feuilly enters, Grantaire is hunched over the counter on the other side and rubbing both hands over his face.

“We’re going to watch Inglorious Bastards, you two up for it?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Enjolras reaches up to touch his neck, wondering if it looks as raw and abused as it had felt under Grantaire’s stubble and teeth, but he quickly catches himself and pretends to scratch an itch instead. “I’ll just get some beers,” he mumbles, mostly needing to do something with his hands to forget about how he wishes he were still touching Grantaire. 

“R, you coming?” 

Grantaire looks briefly over his shoulder towards Feuilly but doesn’t turn around. “I just—I need a cigarette first—you can start without me.” 

“Alright…” Feuilly looks carefully between Enjolras and Grantaire, at both of their flushed cheeks and controlled expressions. “You two didn’t try to kill each other in the fifteen minutes we were gone, did you?” 

Grantaire laughs and it sounds dangerously close to being hysterical, but he eventually turns around and breaks into a crooked smile as he digs out a pouch of tobacco from his back pocket. 

“You’re just waiting for me to die so you can steal my oil paints.” 

“You barely even know where you’ve left them most of the time.” Feuilly rolls his eyes and grabs three of the beers that Enjolras has started to move from the fridge. “Hurry up, Courf and Ferre are getting duvets and blankets and then we’re starting.”

As soon as Feuilly has relocated to the sofa (which really doesn’t make a great deal of difference since the whole area is open-plan and he’s still only a few metres away) and Grantaire has rolled a cigarette, he walks over to Enjolras and adjusts the collar of his t-shirt to cover a bite mark that hasn’t yet faded. 

“You’re going to be the bloody death of me,” Grantaire says quietly, lopsided smile still in place.

Enjolras isn’t so sure, because Grantaire is definitely going to end him first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh gosh you're all the best ever and i love u all very much and honestly i'm freaking out about some of the people who are enjoying this fic?? i'm having such a happy time in my tiny corner of the internet putting this out and i'm rly glad ur all here to share it with me
> 
> (also [here](http://between2devils.tumblr.com/post/67697488724) is a big post about those onesies and sick!trinity looking after each other)
> 
> and all soppiness aside, let it be said that this is where the sex begins and the angst continues (the fluff is a way off but i promise it's there eventually)
> 
> stay rad everybody and say hi on [tumblr](http://between2devils.tumblr.com) i love to hear all your sweet voices


	11. transition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for idk light hearted peer pressure and recreational drug use (not any hard drug use um)

January was an invention to make people never leave their houses. This is Enjolras’ only thought as he climbs out of his window in nothing but the t-shirt and boxers he’d been sleeping in. 

In all honesty Enjolras thrives relatively well in the winter, but this is beyond even him. He doesn’t know how Grantaire does it – thin cotton shirts or moth-eaten jumpers when there’s ice lining every outdoor surface. Enjolras does however count himself lucky that he’s wearing socks and it hasn’t rained overnight, because it makes his short journey to Grantaire’s window that much more bearable. 

He realises that this is not a valid excuse: that normal people do not knock on other people’s windows to return the wine glass they left in their living room the night before. But Enjolras’ brain has not been doing normal things since Grantaire kissed him senseless against the kitchen counter and proceeded to sit suffocatingly close to him for another three hours. 

Grantaire’s window is firmly shut and padded with blankets to keep the draft out because as Bahorel likes to remind them, they are not blessed with a landlord who is generous enough to give them double-glazing. When Grantaire’s face appears from behind the curtain he looks as though he’s just jumped up, a palette knife clenched between his teeth and his eyes wide with shock. 

“Are you mad? What are you doing out there?” Grantaire asks once he’s heaved the window up. “You look like you’ve been sitting in a bloody icebox, get inside you tit.” 

Enjolras jumps in and almost instantly stacks it when he hits the ground, tripping over a canvas that takes up more than half of Grantaire’s floor. He narrowly avoids stepping right through it and keeps a solid grip on the glass in his hand, exiling himself to perch on the edge of Grantaire’s bed where he can’t destroy anything with his early-morning clumsiness. 

“Why are you up so early? It’s Sunday.” 

Grantaire shuts the window and piles all the blankets back up before turning to Enjolras with a smile. “Not all of us hibernate until midday on the weekends. I’ve got work to be getting on with – I somehow managed to get a spot in an exhibition in Hackney.” 

“You’re _good_ – that’s how.” 

Grantaire rolls his eyes and leans back against the windowsill, watching Enjolras absorb the chaos that is his bedroom. “You’ve seen it before, you know.” 

Enjolras shakes his head, because he hasn’t really, not like this. He’s navigated it in the dark while supporting Grantaire and he’s seen glimpses of it through the window when the curtain has been pinned aside, but he’s never been inside and sat here like this. 

It’s not as messy as Enjolras imagined. There are books everywhere: far too many for the single bookcase to hold, so they’re stacked in precarious towers in any available corner. Posters ripped from magazines are tacked up above an old wooden desk that is covered in mugs and paint tubes. The walls have become something of a giant mood board, covered in paint swatches and printouts of other artwork and sketches: it’s very much Grantaire’s mind projected onto a huge spider’s web of ideas. 

The furniture has been moved around since Enjolras was last here, probably to give himself a bigger working area (although having the converted attic room already gives him much more room than either of them would otherwise have in London). Enjolras finds it odd seeing a room that is essentially the same as his, but filled with different things and flipped around. Their rooms are almost L-shaped to accommodate the stairs, and Grantaire has the same little alcove that comes off the side of the main space; but where Enjolras has stuffed a beanbag and half of his books in his, Grantaire has managed to squeeze in a lamp and an old looking armchair. 

“I’ve never seen it properly, the other times don’t count.” 

They _really_ don’t, not when he’s only just seeing how the alcove is decorated with what seems to be Grantaire’s most personal work. There’s hardly a blank space; instead it’s covered in photographs from disposable cameras and portraits Grantaire has drawn of all their friends, a few letters and ticket stubs. In some places the wall has been painted straight onto – and Enjolras recognises a large line drawing of Jehan in one corner, done in thick stylised strokes of a black marker pen. He see’s Feuilly’s face too, and a couple of Cosette and Eponine and Bahorel. 

“It’s not as if I don’t yearn for your company at all times,” Grantaire says suddenly, interrupting Enjolras’ perusal. “But was there something you wanted? Because you’re sitting on my bed in novelty French flag boxers and holding a wine glass and I have no idea what is happening.” 

Enjolras’ cheeks redden as he remembers his clothing—or lack thereof—and he puts the glass down on the bedside table. “This one was yours. You brought it with you.” 

“Thanks?” 

Grantaire looks as if he’s waiting for the punch line of a joke – staring in perplexity as though Enjolras is about to pull one over on him.

There’s a stretch of silence, neither of them saying a thing even though there’s obviously so much to say and there are important things that they clearly need to talk about. But apparently they’re not doing that, and Enjolras is okay with that – really, he is. So he lets himself be momentarily distracted by Grantaire in those plaid pyjama bottoms, the ones that are slightly too big and always sit low on his hips and leave a gap below his t-shirt. 

“Can I ask you something? And it’s not – it’s not an accusation.” 

Grantaire looks startled for a moment at the sudden sound of Enjolras’ voice, before he scoffs and sits down on the floor to start rolling a cigarette. “I’m sure you’re going to anyway.” 

“Did you really have no money at all?” Enjolras continues, deciding not to pick at that dry response from Grantaire. “Because the other two I understand. Bahorel always blows his paycheck on something ridiculous and ends up living off beer, and Feuilly never says anything when he’s short but you always pay for his drinks anyway. It’s just that I’ve never known you to be broke.” 

Grantaire raises his eyebrows at Enjolras but doesn’t say anything straight away. Instead, he twists around to open the bottom drawer of his desk and pulls out a ziplock bag of weed that puts even Jehan’s collection to shame. 

“Of course I wasn’t completely bloody broke,” Grantaire says, starting to roll a joint instead. Enjolras looks at him and waits for an explanation, but Grantaire just smiles sardonically. “What? _Jesus Christ_ , Enjolras – I’m a drug addict for fuck’s sake. You honestly think I wouldn’t have an emergency stash?” 

“Right.” 

Grantaire huffs out a sigh as he digs around the floor in search of a lighter. “It’s not like I don’t feel guilty—I _do_ —but there’s also nothing I could do. Eponine looks after it.” 

He mutters a few curses before giving up on finding a lighter, and instead grabs a matchbox from the windowsill (and Enjolras needs to have a word with Grantaire about the amount of candles littered about his room, because there’s no way that Grantaire is nearly responsible enough to navigate so many fire hazards). 

“Honestly, I’m probably better at handling my money that you are. In fact I’m sure of it. Spliff?” Grantaire asks, holding out the lit joint to Enjolras after he’s had the first few tokes. 

It’s Sunday and Enjolras has nothing to do but sit here watching Grantaire paint, trying to not to stare at the jut of an exposed hipbone where Grantaire’s pyjama are constantly slipping down. It’s pure agony. 

“Yeah, go on then.” He takes the spliff from Grantaire and breathes in a long drag, and the taste reminds him of a night in summer that feels like lifetimes ago now; the night when Grantaire had stumbled—or slunk—into his life and blown smoke into his mouth as if it would be ridiculous to do anything else. 

Enjolras passes it back and decides to stay a while; sitting more comfortably on the bed while Grantaire alternates between smoking, painting, and chugging down coffee. Enjolras recognises the face he nearly tumbled onto now: a close up of Eponine that focuses on her bleary bloodshot eyes, black makeup smudged and crumbling below them, the rest of her face blurred and soft compared to the hard stare that seems to lift off the canvas.  

“That’s incredible – it looks just like her.” 

Grantaire snorts and throws Enjolras a fond eye roll over his shoulder. “Well I’m flattered, but no offence Enjolras, you don’t know much about art.” 

“I was _trying_ to pay you a compliment,” Enjolras huffs, crossing his arms like a petulant toddler with a pout to go with it. 

“I bet you didn’t even take art for GCSE.” 

“I’ll have you know I took design tech.” 

“What did you make?”

“A book and display case,” Enjolras mutters, grimacing at the thought of it still housing his father’s awful books and awful awards for making the minimum effort of being a good human being as CEO of a company. 

Grantaire raises his eyebrows in amusement at Enjolras pinched frown and says, “I took design too. You should’ve seen the look on my dad’s face when he came to the exhibition and saw my name next to a mahogany bar.” 

Enjolras fixes Grantaire with a look of total disbelief, because _only_ him. “You made a _bar_?”

Grantaire grins and he practically glows with pride. “Had a proper beer pump and everything.” 

“You are too ridiculous to even be real,” Enjolras laughs, and Grantaire’s smile grows even wider before he goes back to the canvas. 

Watching Grantaire proves to be almost hypnotic: his hand is always either moving in a quick blur with a reckless abundance of confidence, or he hunches over to mark in painstakingly careful details.  Enjolras has no idea how he can even see what he’s doing since there’s hair flopping into his eyes every time he leans down, and Grantaire’s face is so close to the canvas that he should probably think about getting his sight tested.

It’s absurd, but Enjolras thinks he could sit here for hours watching Grantaire do this. Grantaire seems fundamentally different when he’s in his element, creating things out of nothing: _beautiful_ things that go against every self-deprecating comment he makes against his own work. And it must matter, regardless of what Grantaire claims (“it’s just _art_ , it doesn’t serve a higher purpose like all your great acts of humanitarianism, I don’t even know why I do it. Suppose I can’t do anything else really,”), because he looks more at peace now than Enjolras has ever seen him. 

It feels dangerous to think like that though, to get caught up in what Grantaire is beneath the enigma and what’s important to him. Enjolras knows that’s exactly what they’re not supposed to be doing, and there’s no point whatsoever in making anything harder than it already is. He needs to wean himself off Grantaire in a way – he gets to have more physical contact with him, but in return he needs to swallow down the plethora of _other_ feelings that he’s got for Grantaire. 

Enjolras gets up and makes to leave, searching his brain for a feasible excuse when he trips over something else and almost goes flying yet again. 

“What’s this?” 

Enjolras points to the small gas cylinder by the foot of the bed. Grantaire turns around with a paintbrush behind his ear and another in his mouth, his gaze following Enjolras’ finger. 

“Oh, just nos.” 

Enjolras frowns, looking between Grantaire and the cylinder. “As in nitrous oxide? Laughing gas?” 

Grantaire goes back to his work and nods, trying to wipe off the paint that’s just caught his cheek. “Yeah, Montparnasse had to shift it so it was going cheap. Thought I might as well, y’know, bargain and all. It was a while ago.” 

Enjolras freezes and stares at the back of Grantaire’s head, something hot but wholly unpleasant rushing through his blood. “Montparnasse?” He tries the word out carefully, each syllable resting uncomfortably on his tongue. “I didn’t think you were friends.” 

Of course Enjolras isn’t sure how true that can really be since the interactions he’s seen between Grantaire and Montparnasse don’t seem to be very consistent. From that night on the roof with Eponine he’d assumed Grantaire didn’t like Montparnasse at all – or least trust him. But then there had been Marius’ birthday and that incident of Grantaire and Montparnasse shuffling into the bathroom together for a suspicious amount of time. 

What he really hopes is that Grantaire doesn’t _like_ Montparnasse; that he doesn’t have to compete for Grantaire’s attention with a dark beautiful boy who carries a switchblade and gold knuckledusters everywhere.

Grantaire only shrugs, not even turning around. Enjolras knows he’s thinking about what to say though, because he’s humming quietly with his lips pressed tightly together. 

“He’s my dealer.” 

 _Oh_. 

That’s different, that’s not what Enjolras expected at all, which probably says something about his observational skills actually. “Oh,” Enjolras says out loud this time, and _that_ makes Grantaire turn around. 

“Why, were you jealous?” Grantaire smirks; apparently trying to calculate whatever expression Enjolras is currently wearing. 

“No,” Enjolras grunts quickly. Probably too quickly, but he’s hoping Grantaire doesn’t pick up the defensiveness in his voice. 

He might be a little jealous, but Grantaire does not need to know that he’s not overly thrilled by the idea of Montparnasse spending large amounts of time with him. 

“Mm, maybe you’re right,” Grantaire says thoughtfully, tapping the clean end of his paintbrush against his chin. “I’m not sure green is your colour.” 

Well at least Enjolras knows how Montparnasse does his dirty dealings now – or some of them anyway. He’s sure Montparnasse’s murky career extends far further than the drug trade, and even with this new information and connection, he still doesn’t want to know the details about it. As long as Grantaire doesn’t get dragged in somehow, Enjolras will go on acting completely indifferent to Montparnasse. 

He picks up the gas cylinder out of curiosity, wondering how the weight will feel in his hands. He hardly notices that Grantaire appears to be distracted and hasn’t turned back to his painting, but is instead watching him with a thoughtful expression.

“Do you wanna try it?” 

Enjolras drops the silver cylinder and looks up at Grantaire in confusion. “What?” 

“Don’t you wanna do it at least once?” Grantaire presses, his eyes lighting up as he puts on his most playful smile, the one that makes people do a surprising number of things. “You’re probably the only posh private schoolboy who hasn’t, just saying.” 

“It’s not something I was ever interested in. It seemed sort of pointless, I guess, in comparison to the risks.” 

“Seriously? You’ll smoke my weed but you won’t do a balloon for _free_?” Grantaire says indignantly. He shifts to start rummaging in his desk draw again, coming back to sit closer to Enjolras with a bag of party balloons in his hand. “Come on – they give you this shit at the dentist, it’s basically harmless. And I don’t know what your little school buddies told you, but it feels fucking _wonderful_.” 

“Are you trying to peer pressure me?” Enjolras says in mock horror, and Grantaire throws a putty rubber that hits him on the nose. It’s not that Enjolras had been firmly against it—he’s seen Courfeyrac and Jehan do it a few times before—but now there’s curiosity itching at him. “What does it feel like?” 

Grantaire smiles, and it’s definitely his victory smile. It’s different to his usual one though – less sharp and cutting but still smug as ever. 

He leans forwards, prying the cylinder out of Enjolras’ lap as he says, “You know when you’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe and your stomach hurts and you’re practically crying with it?” Enjolras nods, and Grantaire’s smile grows even wider as he continues. “It’s like a burst of _that_ feeling combined with a mild orgasm.” 

Enjolras feels his cheeks heat up and suddenly he doesn’t know where to even look because Grantaire is just _staring_ at him, waiting for him to say something when all he can really think about is the word _orgasm_ coming out of Grantaire’s mouth. And now he can’t _stop_ thinking about it, and his cheeks just get hotter as his mind goes into overdrive and tries to picture what Grantaire looks like when he has one. 

“Enjolras?” 

“Alright,” Enjolras says in a rush, and he blinks at an unexpected look of surprise of Grantaire’s face. “Yeah okay, I’ll try it.” 

“Come here then.” 

Grantaire pats the floor in front of him and starts filling a balloon. Enjolras shuffles over, sitting with his calves tucked under him and his knees just about touching Grantaire’s crossed legs. 

“Don’t let go – we’ll do it at the same time,” Grantaire says as he hands Enjolras a pink balloon, his finger and thumb tightly pinching the end. 

Enjolras waits for Grantaire to get another balloon ready and toss the cylinder aside, and they start. It’s an odd sensation: breathing in and out and in again, his head feeling strangely light and wobbly as his chest expands and contracts. He finishes before Grantaire and the laughter is already forcing its way up his throat before he’s even spat the balloon out, and he’s not sure when he _really_ starts laughing but he knows he can’t stop. 

Grantaire takes one look at Enjolras’ shaking shoulders, his half-closed eyes as he laughs so hard that tears start to well up in the corners of his eyes, and then he’s laughing equally as hard. Enjolras doesn’t even know what he’s laughing at – there’s absolutely no reason for anything to be funny but it is, and watching Grantaire tip his head back and fill the room with that glorious sound is dizzying. Then Grantaire clasps his hand over Enjolras’ knee, and he feels as if he might explode. 

He knows what Grantaire had tried to describe now – but there aren’t words Enjolras can coherently put together to describe the way his body feels, as if he’s vibrating under the skin and about to spontaneously combust any second now. And just as quickly as it had started, it fades away. Their laughter dies down into gasping breaths, but Enjolras still feels like his bones are buzzing and he blames the sensation for what he does next. 

Grantaire’s wide, easy smile is rare and beautiful and without thinking Enjolras launches himself forwards and tries to preserve it in a kiss. He almost knocks Grantaire back with the force that he uses to propel himself onto his knees, but Grantaire’s hands are a steady grip at Enjolras sides as he kisses him with a desperation that takes them both by surprise. Then Grantaire’s fingers brush against the waistband of his boxers and Enjolras’ pulse jolts. 

“You lied,” he mumbles quietly against Grantaire’s lips. “It didn’t feel like an orgasm.” 

Grantaire laughs breathlessly, his eyes fluttering shut as his fingers squeeze at Enjolras’ sides. “How terrible of me. We’ll have to fix that.” 

“Please do.” And it’s barely more than a whisper but Grantaire gets the message loud and clear and hauls Enjolras into his lap so fast that his head is spinning all over again.

The carpet burns Enjolras’ knees as he gets them on either side of Grantaire, digging them into the floor to give him enough leverage to press himself up against Grantaire as close as he can physically manage. It’s too hot already, the air thick with promise and anticipation as Grantaire’s hands slip right under Enjolras’ shirt and push it out of the way. Enjolras plans on making up for lost time, licking into Grantaire’s mouth with the same determination he puts into everything, chasing the sharp taste of cigarettes and coffee until all that’s left is Grantaire and the sounds he’s spilling into Enjolras’ mouth.   

Grantaire pulls away and Enjolras can’t help but follow him, but there are teeth at the underside of his jaw instead, then his neck, then the flesh of his ear; and Grantaire whispers in a broken raspy voice, “God, I hate you.” 

“ _Really_?” Enjolras laughs, high-pitched and almost manic, because Grantaire sounds sinfully wrecked and _he did that_. 

“Really.” Grantaire bites down on his earlobe, causing a shudder to work its way through Enjolras’ body. “You’ve never done this – you’re not allowed to be _good_ ,” Grantaire whines, his fingers counting ribs and burning a trail down Enjolras’ skin. 

Grantaire’s thumbs hook into the back of Enjolras’ underwear and it’s too much at once, Enjolras’ mouth falling open as he pushes into the touch and shifts just so, until Grantaire gasps and Enjolras can feel the heat and pressure of Grantaire beneath his pyjama bottoms, not a trace of underwear on his person. 

“Oh,” Enjolras breathes, and he realises that he’s never been so hard in his life, so insistently hard that it’s _painful_. He rolls his hips down without giving it a second thought; biting back a groan from how _good_ the friction is, of his cock rubbing against Grantaire’s abdomen while Grantaire bucks up into him. 

“You—are terrible,” Grantaire says shakily, but he pulls Enjolras closer still and works at guiding Enjolras so that they can move in sync with each other, his fingers pressing so firmly that Enjolras is sure he’s going to pass out from sensory overload any minute now. 

It’s a knife-edge of not enough and too much all at once: Enjolras’ hands clutching at Grantaire’s shoulders, sliding down his back, then impatiently tugging his shirt off. Enjolras has no idea what’s coming out of his mouth, but it’s a steady flow of throaty moans and nonsense mutterings that get lost in Grantaire’s neck as he squeezes his eyes shut and fills his mind with the obscene feeling of Grantaire’s cock pushing up just behind his balls like some kind of awful and wonderful torture. 

“You’re going to ruin me for everyone,” Grantaire breathes out, and he lifts a hand to gently trace the line of Enjolras’ jaw, the simple touch a disarming contrast to the way Enjolras is writhing in his lap and fighting to pull any air into his lungs. 

Enjolras makes a sound halfway between a whimper and a moan when Grantaire’s fingers thread through his hair, his hand tightening around a fistful of curls like they had last night. Enjolras looks down at him through heavy lidded eyes, through a haze of lust and heady arousal that redirects every one of his senses towards Grantaire, and says, “ _Good_.” 

Grantaire’s lips quirk at one corner and Enjolras surges forwards to kiss him again, slow and filthy and not much more than a wet slide of their tongues, and when Enjolras grinds down again he feels nails on his scalp and Grantaire shuddering below him with a jerk. 

And that’s just – that’s too much for Enjolras to even think about right now, and the hint of stickiness between them has him pulling away from Grantaire to look at his flushed face and wide eyes and damp hair stuck to his forehead. 

“Did you just—” 

“Yeah—fuck, I know, this is really embarrassing—” 

Enjolras doesn’t even want know how that sentence will end because that was so far from embarrassing – it was ridiculous and hotter than it should have been and it’s driving Enjolras closer to the edge the more he thinks about it. Enjolras tells Grantaire as much with another urgent kiss, open-mouthed and decadent and this is just so terrible because he never wants to stop; he wants to watch minutes stretch into hours as he digs himself a place in Grantaire’s life and never gets out. 

He does stop though, because Grantaire’s fingers are flirting with the waistband of his boxers again and that’s enough to distract anyone. And then there’s Grantaire’s _voice_ , because he’s pulling back and asking, “Can I?” as if Enjolras would ever actually say no. Enjolras nods, watching intently as Grantaire edges his underwear down enough to free his cock and wrap a hand around it. 

“Fuck,” Enjolras gasps, and he’s sure that he sees the hint of a smirk on Grantaire’s face as he strokes Enjolras with feather-light touches and a maddeningly loose grip. It’s pure torment, the way Grantaire holds him with the kind of reverence that’s reserved for sacred objects, and when he rubs his thumb over the head of Enjolras’ cock it’s almost like death itself. “Oh god, please—” Enjolras babbles around a choked back sob, “I need to—I need—” 

Grantaire kisses the hollow of his throat as his head falls back, and when he licks at droplet of sweat that’s still in motion Enjolras feels like he’s been set on fire. 

“I know, I know,” Grantaire soothes, words burying themselves in Enjolras’ shoulder as the hand circled around him tightens and speeds up, and _god_ it’s so fucking wonderful that he wants to rewind these seconds and live them over and over again, with Grantaire mumbling into his skin and sliding a hand up his chest that brushes his nipple and has him trembling.

Enjolras catches Grantaire’s hand and winds their fingers together, clasping tightly as he feels that tell-tale heat coiling low in his belly, his toes curling and breath stuck until Grantaire twists his wrist and sends him flying over a precipice, come streaking both of their chests as Enjolras cries out and buries his face in Grantaire’s shoulder. 

It feels as though he’s a stolen minute from another universe when Grantaire rubs his thumb against the back of his hand, their fingers still interlocked while Enjolras’ breathing starts to even out and his heartbeat slows down. Grantaire wipes his other hand on his discarded t-shirt before bringing it to Enjolras’ back, his spread palm moving slowly in soothing patterns, fingertips skimming across the length of his arm and a faint press of lips against the top of his side. 

Enjolras stays wrapped around Grantaire, even holding him a little tighter despite the sticky mess plastering them together (which they should really clean up, but Enjolras is firmly against anything that involves moving or separating right now). Grantaire makes a contented humming sound that Enjolras feels vibrating from his chest, and it’s ridiculous that Enjolras has never felt more at peace or tranquil than right here, right now. 

“How was that?” Grantaire asks almost tentatively, and that’s it. Enjolras knows that pilfered moment of sentimentality is over and they’re back to what was agreed. 

Only Enjolras is still basking in afterglow and he can’t exactly bring himself to his senses when all he can smell is sex in the air and Grantaire’s hands are still all over him. “It was – wow,” Enjolras mumbles, and he is positive that the purring sound he hears cannot possibly be coming from him. “Good. Great. It was great.” 

Grantaire snorts to himself, not that he can be blamed: it’s not particularly one of Enjolras most articulate moments. 

“Christ, look at me. I’ve corrupted you already.” Grantaire laughs, but it’s not funny. Neither of them think it’s funny. 

Enjolras bites down into Grantaire’s shoulder, annoyance bubbling up at what he’s just heard. 

“Don’t say that, it’s not nice,” Enjolras says firmly, but the hardness of his voice gets lost in Grantaire’s neck. _It’s not true_ is what he really means. And he could go off on a whole rant about why it’s disgusting that corruption is linked with sexual exploration, except he can sense that Grantaire’s body has gone tense. “Is this – I am doing something wrong?” Enjolras asks, pushing away from Grantaire to get a good look at him. 

He’s extricated their joined hands and has stopped touching Enjolras, both of his fists now planted carefully by his sides as he seems to fight an inner battle on whether to look at Enjolras or not. 

He does, eventually, but it’s through a carefully controlled mask that leaves Enjolras reeling in confusion. 

“No. You’re fine, you haven’t done anything,” Grantaire says breathlessly, trying for another laugh but letting a bitter undertone creep through. “Don’t you have to meet Courf and Ferre? You have that thing with Cosette today.” 

Enjolras’ recoils on instinct, feeling like he’s just been given a very strong hint to pack up and leave, that he’s already overstayed his welcome and pushed the boundary too far. He probably has, but Grantaire’s awkward prompt does nothing but twist the knife in. 

“Um, yeah, I do.”

 Enjolras flashes a glance at his watch, realising that he really should leave if he’s going to squeeze in a shower before meeting the others for coffee on the way to this meeting. Enjolras hastily yanks his underwear back up and peels himself away from Grantaire, studiously ignoring his eye until he’s pulled his shirt down over the mess on his chest with a grimace, and is halfway to the window. 

“I guess I’ll see you later then,” Enjolras says, running his fingers along the cracked paint of the window frame. The haze of his orgasm has subsided and now he’s left with nothing but a heavy twisting feeling in his gut.

Grantaire doesn’t even look up, just continues to stare at the floor as he replies: “Yeah, see you around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you don't know, GCSEs are these horrific exams that everyone aged 15/16 in the UK (excluding scotland) have to take and they are very important and Grantaire probably took the same approach as me towards them (get plastered the weekend before and fall asleep in a French listening exam and wing the rest of the them... not even I know how I managed not to fail anything). BUT I DO KNOW SOMEONE WHOSE SISTER MADE AN ACTUAL BAR IN DT FOR GCSE


	12. january 21st

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a drug heavy chapter folks

_[Courf:] emergency group meeting!! everyone come 2 the ice cream place in covent garden at lunch!! don’t tell R, we’ve got secret business xoxoxx_

Enjolras rolls his eyes at the mass text he receives while at work, because secret business with Courfeyrac means he has plans; and plans with Courfeyrac are _never_ easy.

He shows up anyway and ends up being slightly early since he works not too far away. Courfeyrac is already there and sharing an obnoxiously large banana split with Jehan in a booth. Comebeferre is there too, hunched over a steaming coffee with Bahorel next him and enough crepes and ice cream to feed a whole family.

“This must be one of your most ridiculous ideas,” Enjolras sighs as he slides in next to Combeferre. “It’s the middle of _winter_. Why are we in an ice cream parlour?”

“I resent all society constructs that suggest ice cream is a seasonal food – there should be no restrictions on ice cream consumption!” Courfeyrac cries, and Jehan snorts around his spoon and pats Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“Seconded!”

Everyone turns to look at Bahorel, his mouth completely full and dribbling melting ice cream.

Enjolras reaches for Jehan’s milkshake and they pass it between them while they wait for everyone else to arrive. Bossuet and Joly come a little while afterwards, both wrapped up in so many layers of jackets and scarves that it’s almost impossible to identify them.

“Courf, you are an actual idiot. Why are we _here_?” Joly whines, and he looks like he’s been dragged through a bush backwards from where he’s yanked his woolly hat off.

“Why is everyone so against ice-cream? You’re all heathens!” Courfeyrac shakes his spoon at them all and scowls around a mouthful of banana. “Where’s Feuilly?”

“Right here,” Feuilly grumbles from across the parlour, ducking to avoid hitting his head under the low doorframe. “I was on the other side of London you arsewipe, this better be good.”

Feuilly strolls over and drags a chair up from another table, dropping his backpack on the ground with a thud before he sprawls out with a sigh.

“Eponine’s still working, Cosette is in a class, and Marius has a lecture in five minutes,” Feuilly says, ticking each name off on his fingers.

“Right well, everyone pipe down and we’ll start!” Courfeyrac calls out, thumping his spoon on the table to silence everyone. “It’s Grantaire’s birthday tomorrow and I really think we should do something.

“Oh,” Feuilly says simply, his eyes darting over to Bahorel.

“What do you mean _oh_?” Courfeyrac asks, looking very put out at the two of them. “Obviously it doesn’t have to be as crazy as Marius’ was—I’m not sure anyone’s liver is ready for that kind of damage again—”

“Or pride in your case…” Jehan mutters quietly, stirring the remains of his milkshake with a straw.

“I wasn’t that bad!”

“You threw up on the bus.”

Joly looks horrified while Combeferre just looks thoroughly disappointed (Enjolras, however, is not surprised at all). Courfeyrac mutters something under his breath and folds his arms.

“As I was saying, we should do _something_. Even if it’s just drinks at the Corinthe; we could get everyone together and it’ll be karaoke night anyway and—”

“I really don’t think we should,” Feuilly cuts in, looking apologetic about it. “I’m surprised he even told you the day.”

Courfeyrac straightens up and looks wonderfully smug about this. “I can be very persistently annoying when I want to be, and he was trying to get rid of me.”

Enjolras stays silent with the thought that he’s never so much as even asked Grantaire when his birthday is. Being caught up in all these other complicated things has completely swept away the normal friend things, and it’s not something he’s happy about once he realises.

“It’s just that, well Grantaire doesn’t like his birthday. He hates doing anything – he’d much rather pretend it’s not happening.” Feuilly looks as though there’s more to it, but he’s hesitant to say more.

“How can he not like birthdays?” Courfeyrac groans, slumping over the table again. “There’s so much to love! Birthday sex, Jehan’s burnt cookies, Cosette’s marvellous cakes, getting embarrassingly drunk!”

Bahorel shrugs and tilts back on his chair. “One year I bought him a cake and he broke my nose.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Joly gasps, but Jehan just starts laughing with his hand clasped over his mouth.

“It’s just a thing, you know? Every January 21st, Grantaire will probably be getting drunk by himself in a bar where he knows you won’t find him, and he’ll call Eponine in the early hours and crash with her.” Bahorel shrugs again, reeling it off in such a matter of fact way that it makes Enjolras fidget in his seat.

There’s definitely something more.

Courfeyrac drops it though, deciding that even if it’s a shame and one he doesn’t fully understand, Grantaire’s comfort is the most important thing – especially on his birthday. At Feuilly’s suggestion, he even makes everyone else promise not to mention the ‘B-word’ whatsoever tomorrow, and just act normal (“Not you Enjolras – you have be _nice”_ ).

And everything is fine until the evening of Grantaire’s actual birthday.

Enjolras is having a quiet drink in the Musain with Combeferre and Joly when everything starts to go downhill. Feuilly comes in looking out of breath and wide-eyed, his hair flopping down into his face as searches for familiar faces. He spots the three of them after a minute and rushes over, and Enjolras is already feeling apprehensive.

“Something might be wrong,” Feuilly says as he drags over a stool and sits down, not even wasting time with a hello.

“What is it?” Joly frowns, and his knee is already bobbing up and down with worry.

Feuilly isn’t like this. He’s as calm as Combeferre is but another shade of it: lovingly snarky where Combeferre is eternally patient, sharp where Combeferre is soft and fondly sarcastic. Feuilly doesn’t lose his rag, but he’s sitting here and scratching at his stubble and looking more than panicked.

“What I said about Grantaire’s birthday yesterday – well there’s a system. He goes to work and doesn’t come home; but he always texts just to let us know he’s alive or that Eponine’s got him.” Feuilly pauses to rubs his eyes thoroughly, and Enjolras has only just noticed how particularly exhausted he looks.

“Feuilly, what’s happened?” Enjolras asks carefully, not quite sure he wants to hear the answer.

“I think he started a day early. He didn’t come home last night but he sent me and Eponine a some unreadable texts that made it obvious how drunk he was. We haven’t seen or heard from him since though – and he swapped out of his shift at work today.”

“And you think he’s still out right now,” Combeferre finishes, and Feuilly confirms it with a grim nod.

“We’ve checked all his usual hangouts—and Eponine’s still out looking—but it’s impossible when he doesn’t want to be found. And obviously he doesn’t[S3] .”

It feels like something thick and heavy is clawing its way up Enjolras’ throat as his brain catches up. He pictures Grantaire incoherent and only half conscious, collapsed on the grimy bathroom floor of a cheap bar. Or the very worst: Grantaire dead in a dark alley somewhere because he didn’t know when to stop mixing his drink and drugs. Enjolras tries to shake that one away; Grantaire is good at that and everyone knows it, in fact it’s usually worrying that Grantaire can calculate his intake of different poisons so well that he ends up better than most of them at the end of a night. 

“Fuck, we should do something – what do we do?” Joly asks frantically, and he’s halfway out of his seat when Feuilly rests his forehead on the table and embodies defeat.

“Fuck knows. His phone is switched off and for all I know he could be on a bloody train to Edinburgh right now.” 

“What about family? Are there any relatives he might have gone to?” Combeferre asks hopefully, but after what Grantaire said on Christmas, Enjolras already knows the answer.

Feuilly doesn’t even lift his head when he snorts. “Yeah, that’s the one place he definitely won’t be.” He finally sits up, but only to snatch Combeferre’s pint and drain half of it. 

“Do you think we should call around?” Joly says, and Enjolras can see him crossing one leg over the other to keep it from bobbing. “You know, people outside the group who know him and hang out with him. If nobody’s seen him then maybe we should file a missing persons report.” 

“Between me, Bahorel, and Eponine we’ve called _everyone_.” Feuilly rakes his hands through his hair until his ponytail falls right out, and he shakes his head and rests it back on the table. “No missing persons report. He’d hate that. He’s disappeared for longer than this before but it’s different on his birthday. If he doesn’t show up by tomorrow then… I dunno, maybe.”

Feuilly doesn’t stay much longer, dragging himself away for a late shift at one of the many jobs he’s somehow juggling at the moment. But shortly after he’s gone Eponine comes slinking into the Musain looking equally exhausted and stressed and done with _everything_. 

“We heard about Grantaire,” says Joly glumly when she stops by their table. 

“Heard from him?” 

Joly shakes his head and her shoulders sag. “Fucking hell, this is completely useless.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Combeferre asks, and Eponine looks at him as if she wishes there were. Combeferre is usually capable of fixing things, whatever they might be and whoever they might concern, and the fact that he can’t is unsettling. 

“You can get me a shot of whiskey, that’d be great,” she says instead, and Joly looks as if he wouldn’t mind one as well.

Combeferre’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are you sure that’s a good idea—”

“My head is a mess, Ferre. You don’t understand. I’ve got all this _shit_ fucking flying around and none of it is helping me find this arsehole, so yeah, I think a goddamn drink is the only hope I have of getting my mind together to track the little shit down.”

Combeferre looks rueful as he nods and stands up, his arm reaching out to touch Eponine’s shoulder before he thinks better of it. “Sit down, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Eponine looks at Combeferre with an odd sort of perplexity, and Enjolras knows it’s the face he makes when he’s talking to Grantaire and they’re not arguing; he’d recognise it anywhere. Combeferre leaves for the bar and after looking conflicted for a moment, Eponine flops down into the big armchair he’s just vacated. 

“Where would you go if you were an unstable drug addict and boozer on your least favourite day of the year?” Eponine sighs, tapping her phone on the arm of the chair as she blows hair out of her face.

It’s probably a rhetorical question but Enjolras answers it anyway.

“His dealer, possibly.” 

Eponine pulls one leg up to her chest and lets her head fall back. “Montparnasse? I thought of that but the bastard won’t answer his phone.” 

“So why not go round and see – you’re sort of…together, aren’t you?” Enjolras asks carefully, but he’s only met by an indignant scoff.

“You don’t just _show up_ at Montparnasse’s place – well Grantaire does, but that’s because he’s got a death wish half the time. Montparnasse is serious about his privacy.”

Combeferre returns and holds out a glass to Eponine. “Take it easy, you’ll give yourself an early death.”

“Oh put a sock in it, grandpa,” Eponine says rather affectionately, and she sticks her tongue out at Combeferre while he pulls another stool over and straddles it. “Besides, you can hardly talk – when are you not worrying about your two pet monkeys?” 

Enjolras makes a noise of protest at that and sinks further into his seat, trying to ignore the sickly churning that has started up in his stomach. He worries about Grantaire, he really does, even if nobody else seems to think so.

Eponine has just necked back the whiskey when her phone buzzes and she scrambles to answer it. But as soon as she reads the caller-ID her face falls and she mutters _speak of the devil_ before picking up.

“What do you mean he’s _with you_?” Eponine hisses, sinking further back into the chair with a deadly look on her face. Enjolras strains his ears to hear the voice on the other line but there are too many other voices in the Musain that overlap it. “I’ve been calling you for hours and _now_ you decide to tell me?”

Enjolras tries to interrupt to ask what’s happening but she shoves him away roughly by the forehead, so they all patiently wait for the conversation to end before they pounce on her for answers.

“What did he say?” Enjolras presses as soon as Eponine has hung up. She fixes him with a look that is three parts suspicious and two parts surprise.

“Calm down tiger, Grantaire is at Parnasse’s flat. That’s the good news.”

“And the bad news?” Joly asks anxiously, leaning forwards over the table.

“The only reason Parnasse told me is because Grantaire is in a really bad way. He wants me to come get him – which, _obviously_ , I’m not going to leave him there, am I?” Eponine rubs her eyes and sighs heavily, and Enjolras can’t even tell the difference between what’s smudged makeup and dark circles under her eyes anymore. “Montparnasse sounded worried, and if he’s worried it’s because he knows I’m going to flip my shit. Which means Grantaire is really, dangerously fucked.”

“I’m coming with you,” Enjolras says, words escaping his mouth before he can think to stop them. And with the way Eponine is looking at him now maybe he should have tried harder to hold his tongue.

“What?”

Enjolras figures he can’t back out now, and if he _doesn’t_ go then he’ll be sick with worry all night wondering what kind of state Grantaire is in. “I want to come,” Enjolras says again, and he stands up to get his coat.

“Enjolras, what are you doing?” Combeferre says to him in a hushed whisper. He’s gotten to his feet to corner Enjolras and his eyebrows pinch together as he tries to gauge Enjolras’ thought processes. “There’s something else going on, isn’t there?” 

Enjolras avoids Combeferre’s gaze, knowing that he’ll say too much once Combeferre’s fretting starts to makes him feel guilty. “I don’t know what you mean. I just want to help,” Enjolras mutters to the floor, but he knows Combeferre doesn’t believe it for a second. 

“Enjolras, I’m not sure if you should come,” Eponine says suddenly, her voice firm and eyes hard.

“Why not?” 

Eponine narrows her eyes and stands up as well. “Like I said, Grantaire is going to be a mess. Even _without_ drugs or alcohol, his head is a horrible place to be right now. He doesn’t need anyone telling him that he’s a waste of space or he’s fucked up because I promise you, it will send him over the edge. He’s already been telling himself that all day and now he needs someone to hold him together for a little while.”

That stings more than a little bit, but what’s worse is that it’s an entirely justified remark to make. Enjolras is hard on Grantaire and more often than not he does it without thinking about the consequences, but he doesn’t do it for the sake of being mean. He does it because he cares, and he cares _so much_ , so he’s at a loss for why nobody else can ever seem to grasp that concept quite so well.

“He’s my friend,” Enjolras says, swallowing thickly.

“I _know_ that, but you’ve got some unsavoury ways of showing friendship when it comes to Grantaire.”

“I just want to help, please. You can’t do this by yourself, Eponine.”

Eponine chews on the inside of her cheeks as she crosses her arms and mulls it over. “Fine, but you have to be _nice_ , alright?”

Enjolras nods hastily and tries to give Combeferre a reassuring glance, but it does absolutely nothing to smooth out the wrinkles in his brow or the tight twist to his mouth. Joly looks equally distressed, frozen in his seat and pale as a sheet while he bites his thumbnail. They look how Enjolras feels: eerily cold with building dread and a thousand different but equally terrifying scenarios running through their heads.

Montparnasse’s flat is further east, the sort of place that makes their area look wonderful and has Eponine poised for a fight at every corner they pass. Enjolras stays close to her and pays careful attention to his surroundings, fists clenched at his sides and shoulders squared as he tries to stop picturing the worst. They stop outside a blackened brick tower block and Eponine doesn’t so much as pause before punching in the code to get through the front door. According to the list of flats Montparnasse’s is on the fourth floor with one other person, and lucky for them: there’s no elevator.

Midway through climbing the stairs, grimy and grey and stinking of piss, Enjolras is reminded that he has one hundred per cent ignored his new years resolution of going for the occasional jog so that he doesn’t end up feeling like he’s had a hernia after a couple flights of stairs. Eponine raises her eyebrow at him once they’ve reached the fourth floor and looks like she’s about to smirk, but she swiftly turns around to knock on Montparnasse’s door instead.

Montparnasse cracks the door open on the chain and peers through the gap, seeing Enjolras first and reacting with a sour glare before Eponine shoves into his view and demands to be let in. Montparnasse takes the door off the chain and stands in the doorway for a moment. He stares down Enjolras, blue eyes pale to the point of being grey, wearing a crisp white shirt buttoned to the collar and floral socks. After a few long seconds he seems to settle some sort of inner turmoil and pivots on his heel to stride back into the flat.

They follow Montparnasse inside and it’s like nothing Enjolras has ever seen before. 

At first Enjolras is stuck on how impersonal the whole place is: exposed cinderblock walls left bare and depressingly bleak next to equally empty white walls. The furniture is sparse but reflects more of Montparnasse’s flashy side: a black leather sofa and matching chair, a couple of ornate wooden dressers that look antique (most probably stolen), a flat screen television (probably also dubiously acquired), and a large square coffee table in black and chrome where Grantaire’s mess is currently laid out. 

It’s the least comforting flat he’s ever been in, and everything feels harsh and detached in a way that’s almost sinister.

Grantaire himself is slumped out across the sofa, one arm hanging down as he faces the ceiling and doesn’t move an inch. It makes worry claw at Enjolras like a vicious creature, but what’s worse is the surface of the coffee table. If Grantaire has taken everything that’s been left out then Enjolras is already so far out of his depth, because he could never have prepared himself for anything like this and he feels sick just taking it in. 

Eponine rushes to Grantaire’s side but Enjolras is stuck where he’s standing and he can’t stop staring. There are empty prescription bottles, all different sorts of pills mingling with powder, some of it cut into neat white lines with a credit card that’s been also been left out. There’s an empty bottle of vodka that’s been kicked under the table, and when Enjolras sees that _and_ the needles he swallows down another wave of dense nausea.

Grantaire is fucked in ways Enjolras can’t even begin to understand, and he has no idea how to judge whether Grantaire needs a goddamn hospital or just time to work it all out of his system. Grantaire’s fingers twitch from where they’re dangling above the floor – and that’s a good sign at least, fuck, at least he’s retained some sort of function.

“Grantaire?” Eponine pushes his hair back and presses the back of her hand against his forehead, frowning at whatever result she finds. “Can you hear me?” She strokes his hair back again and cups her other hand on his cheek, tapping when there’s no response. 

Montparnasse sits down in the chair and lights a cigarette with such nonchalance that Enjolras maybe wants to strangle him.

Instead, Enjolras summons up the will to drag himself over to Grantaire, kneeling in front of the sofa as he braves a look at him. Grantaire’s eyes are barely open, and if not for the occasional blink then Enjolras would think Grantaire was already out cold. But his head is lolling about a little and his chest just about rises and falls with each breath (even if it seems like all of Grantaire’s energy is going into just that).

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says as calmly as he can manage. Grantaire’s eyebrows pull into a frown and Eponine exhales a breath that Enjolras hadn’t known she was holding.

“He probably hasn’t eaten. I’ll get some bread and a glass of water.” Eponine pushes her hand back through Grantaire’s hair once more before moving into the small kitchen on the other side of the room. 

“R, wake up.” Enjolras says, his hand curling around Grantaire’s bicep and squeezing gently. Grantaire makes a gurgled sound of protest and frowns harder, his eyes squeezing tightly shut. “At least open your eyes. Please.”

Grantaire makes it seem like it’s the hardest thing in the world just to open his eyes a tiny bit, so that all Enjolras can see are two slits of darkness and a worrying lack of any iris. He holds Grantaire’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting Grantaire’s head towards him in the hopes of holding his attention.

Instead, Grantaire’s hand flies to Enjolras’ wrist and closes around it like a vice, his fingers pressing into the bone painfully tight as he squints up at Enjolras.

“God, I’m tripping so fucking hard,” Grantaire murmurs almost incoherently, and that’s enough to make Enjolras’ blood go cold. He’s seen Grantaire blackout drunk and unable to move, and even then he can control his voice to a slight slur. “Parnasse?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have come,” Montparnasse says coolly, smoke billowing out of his nostrils as he taps his cigarette over a chipped ashtray. “He’s been babbling about you all night. He’s probably confused as fuck.”

“What?” Enjolras is the one who’s confused, because _that doesn’t make any sense_. He hates Montparnasse and his stupidly vague way of talking to people that haven’t earned his trust or respect or whatever is it that Enjolras _doesn’t_ have.

“I mean this one – he’s already a complete mess – was holding it together alright though, but then I start hearing your name and he’s asking for more and more stuff. Could be a coincidence, but I don’t think either of us believe that.” 

Montparnasse looks at Enjolras expectantly, but there’s still something so irritatingly casual about it – as if he’d only asked whether Enjolras would like coffee or tea instead of making his stomach plummet roughly.

“I don’t—he’s not—” But Enjolras can’t even finish that sentence; he’s only trying to convince himself and he can’t even do that because he doesn’t _know_ what Grantaire was like before. But surely it can’t be that bad because he’s stuck around, and Bahorel and Feuilly are protective of him enough that they wouldn’t have let the two groups become one huge mess of friends if it was doing something to Grantaire.

That’s what Enjolras hopes. 

And honestly, Montparnasse could just be fucking with him to see him squirm. Enjolras wouldn’t put it past him; for all Enjolras knows, he could have a fucking mental breakdown right now and Montparnasse would just clap him on the shoulder and tell him he was only taking the piss. God, he hopes that’s what it is. He doesn’t think he can stand it otherwise.

“Move,” Eponine orders on her return, a plate of dry bread in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “And _you –_ ” Eponine’s head whips around to face Montparnasse with furious eyes. “Just because I’m not tearing this place apart and setting fire to your clothes does not mean I’m taking this well, understand?”

“He won’t be able to swallow anything, he’s _gone_ ,” Montparnasse says, completely ignoring what Eponine has just said (though the closed off look on his face says different).

Eponine doesn’t take this well either. In fact, she looks as if she’s very close to smashing Montparnasse’s face on the coffee table. Enjolras can practically hear the grind of her teeth as she slams the plate and glass on the table’s surface and begins to haul Grantaire up instead. He makes a few mumbled protests, but there’s really nothing he can do to stop Eponine (and Enjolras is wondering if she’s had to do this before because she seems at ease with bearing Grantaire’s weight on her shoulders as he slumps forwards and tries to find his feet). 

“Did you not think to tell me he was here? I’ve been all over the fucking place looking for him, you bastard!”

“He made me promise not to tell you.” 

“And since when do you keep promises?” Eponine snaps coldly. Montparnasse flinches and his mouth twitches in what Enjolras knows to be hurt. 

“Ponine—” He calls out, but she’s already got an arm around a now upright Grantaire and is lugging him to the door.

“He could have died!” Eponine shouts across the room, her voice thick with venom. “Just fuck off, would you? I can’t do this right now.”

She’s halfway through the door when she looks back to Montparnasse again, shaking her head at him sadly with her jaw clenched as if she might cry. When she slams the door behind her, hard enough to make the room rattle, both Enjolras and Montparnasse wince. 

“She’s right. He could have died and it would have been on your hands,” Enjolras seethes, and he glares at Montparnasse as if he might burst into flames if he looks at him viciously enough.

Montparnasse shoots Enjolras a glance that is equal measures pitying and full of distaste, a half-hearted and humorous laugh sounding from him. “He probably wanted to.” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You immoral piece of shit—” 

Montparnasse’s head snaps around and he’s in front of Enjolras in less than a second, practically nose-to-nose as he snarls at him, “You must be looking for a knife down your throat because I didn’t _ask_ for your opinion.” 

Enjolras’ self preservation finally kicks in, reminding him that he’s alone in a dangerous man’s house—no, not man, _boy_ —with nothing at hand to defend himself with. He considers whether it would be worth the trouble of headbutting Montparnasse, but he _really_ doesn’t want to end bleeding out in a ditch somewhere on the M25. So Enjolras lets his rage fester, lets it wind around the fear and apprehension that is lodged in his throat, and he glowers back at Montparnasse silently.

“You fucking posh boys, always doing whatever the fuck you want. Who cares about all the shit you leave behind, right?” Montparnasse spits the words out like they’re poison, leaning so close to Enjolras that he can smell the smoke on Montparnasse’s breath and the cologne that lingers on his shirt collar. “Your precious pet isn’t too bad, I like him. That’s why he gets to tweak himself stupid in _my_ four walls – _that’s_ why he’s not choking on his own vomit in a gutter right now. Never thinks to tell me he’s got his—whatever you even are—chasing after him and mouthing off in my own living room. _You_ , so fucking full of it that you think I should be babysitting him just because I’m scum under your boot, is that it? You’ve got another thing coming, mate.”

Montparnasse bares his teeth for a moment, his lip curling to reveal glaringly white teeth that are far from natural. Enjolras looks down, knowing that there’s truth in Montparnasse’s bitter words: that he’s overstepped and he looks like a self-righteous prick. Eponine knows Montparnasse, she’s tangled up with him in ways that Enjolras can’t even begin to understand, but he hardly knows the first thing about him beyond the fact that he’s a drug dealer (among other things).

Montparnasse’s face softens into an annoyed scowl before he huffs out a resigned sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose as he turns away from Enjolras. He walks over to the front door and picks something up from dresser in the corner, walking back to Enjolras with an odd expression.

“This is his.” 

Montparnasse holds out Grantaire’s coat.

The green parka, folded neatly into a rectangle.

Enjolras grabs it and stuffs it under one arm, ignoring the sharp clench that feels as though an iron fist is clamped around his heart and lungs and throat. Montparnasse smoothes the sides of his hair back and moves to the coffee table with quick strides and forced serenity.

“Look, get yourself a cab home. Grantaire will be fine but he’ll have a comedown from hell,” Montparnasse says calmly, picking up his wallet and sifting through it. He walks back over to Enjolras with a handful of twenty pound notes and folds them into another neat wad that he holds out. “Don’t tell Eponine. It’ll hurt her pride too much to take it. She doesn’t want my money.”

Enjolras snatches it from him without a word, unsure of what to make of Montparnasse.

The way Enjolras sees it, Montparnasse fucked up Grantaire and handing out guilt money is the least he can do.  And because Enjolras isn’t like Eponine and barely knows Montparnasse, he doesn’t feel a thing for taking it. He’d probably push someone out of taxi and into moving traffic right now just to just get Grantaire safely on his way home.

His fingers twitch with the urge to hit Montparnasse square on his perfect fucking jaw, to break the even slope of his nose and watch his crisp white shirt become stained with dripping blood.  He doesn’t though; because even though he’s angry he knows he has no real right to be. Montparnasse doesn’t owe him anything, and it’s certainly not his—or anybody else’s—responsibility to watch Grantaire. Montparnasse might have given him the means of drugging himself in oblivion, but Grantaire made the decision to do that all by himself. 

That’s the hardest part for Enjolras to stomach. He wants to direct his anger towards Grantaire but he _can’t_ , not when he’s practically unconscious on the other side of the door just because it’s his fucking birthday. And Montparnasse is _right here_ but even that doesn’t feel right because he looks just as shaken as Enjolras feels[S7] , all of it contained underneath his slick mask of composure. Enjolras takes one look at Montparnasse’s constant pacing as he tries to look casual, pushing back his hair in what looks like restlessness before finally lighting a cigarette, and Enjolras bites his lip so hard he feels it crack and ooze blood. 

“His phone too,” Montparnasse says, digging it out of a drawer in the dresser. “He pretty much begged me to switch it off and take it – he kept wanting to call you or something. I dunno, guess he knew he’d regret whatever he said.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, his voice not sounding like his own. He takes Grantaire’s phone and slips it into his pocket. 

Montparnasse looks at him, perplexed for a brief moment before his face smoothes out again. “Now fuck off, would you?”

Enjolras want to laugh and he’s reached the point of hysterical terror where he very almost does. Montparnasse had sounded exactly like Eponine, and it occurs to him that the same thing that keeps them together is probably what makes them clash like opposing forces. A relationship with a pair of personalities that strong and stubborn would destroy itself, and Enjolras idly wonders if that’s what he and Grantaire are doing.

Enjolras joins Eponine on the landing and tries not to linger on Grantaire’s wobbly limbs and bowed head. Instead, he focuses of getting hold of Grantaire’s other side so they can both get him down four flights of stairs without Grantaire cracking his skull. Grantaire whines unintelligibly the whole way down and Eponine never stops whispering soothing things in his ear. Enjolras keeps quiet, thinking only of Grantaire’s fingers tightly fisted in the fabric of his coat and the arm around his shoulders. 

“Keep hold of him, I’ll get a cab,” Eponine says once they’re outside the building and staring out into an empty street. Enjolras nods, deciding to keep his sinking doubt to himself. He shouldn’t be at all surprised when Eponine disappears for a minute or two and reappears through the open window of a hackney carriage that pulls up right in front of him. 

There are times when he thanks god for Eponine, and this is definitely one of them.

Eponine scoots over to one side and they ease Grantaire in between them, and he seems to be coming back into the world and waking up when he asks where they’re going and puts his head in his hands.

“We’re taking you home,” Eponine says, rubbing circles into the space between Grantaire’s shoulders. 

“Why’s Enjolras here?” 

Eponine catches Enjolras’ eye and considers him suspiciously, much like she had at the Musain but now tinged with something softer. “He wanted to come.” Grantaire inhales sharply and lets his head drop down between his knees, saying nothing else while Eponine narrows her eyes at Enjolras. The sound of her phone buzzing steals her attention away, and a shade of horror darkens her expression when she reads what’s on the screen. “Shit. Mother fucking _shit_.”

“What is it?” Enjolras asks tentatively, unsure of whether he really wants to know how this situation could possibly get worse.

Eponine taps her phone on her knee in apparent frustration and squeezes her eyes shut. “My parents are flipping their shit and Gavroche is stuck in the house and I.” She turns to Enjolras and for once she looks her age, yet still more scared and tired than any eighteen year old should. “I can’t leave him. I have to get him out or be a buffer but I can’t—”

“Go.”

Eponine widens her eyes before she looks down at Grantaire and starts saying: “What about—”

“I’ll take him, it’s fine.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Eponine sighs, but she’s already clutching her phone and uncrossing her legs. 

“Eponine, _go_. I can handle this.” It’s a bare faced lie but one that he’s all too prepared to make. He can’t handle this at all but he can damn well put on a calm and collected front for sake of Eponine looking after her brother and Grantaire getting home safe.

“Thanks. I’m – thank you, Enjolras.” She gets the cabby to pull over and hops out with one last comforting ruffle to Grantaire’s hair. Before he gets out Enjolras manages to slip half of Montparnasse’s money into her pocket without her noticing, and they’re already at least three streets away before Eponine finds it and curses under her breath.

Grantaire falls asleep halfway to Dalstan, his head pressing against Enjolras’ thigh in what looks like a painfully contorted position. Enjolras only wakes him up after he’s paid for the cab, and he puts the ten pounds change into the pocket of Grantaire’s parka. After an hefty two-day bender there’s little doubt in Enjolras’ mind that Grantaire will be rubbing pennies together for the rest of the month.

Enjolras finds the house key whilst he’s rooting around in Grantaire’s pocket and gets it out before he hauls Grantaire from the car. He seems a little steadier on his feet but is now riddled with interrupted sleep and blinks wearily at Enjolras, eyes heavy lidded and still much too dark.

“Are we home?” Grantaire mumbles, scrubbing his face with the heel of his hand and scratching at week-old stubble. 

“Yeah, let’s get you inside, okay?” Enjolras gets his arm around Grantaire again and leads him to the door, struggling to shuffle inside two-abreast through the front door and untidy hallway. 

He tries to keep a firm enough hold on Grantaire to keep him from tripping over the mess of kicked off shoes and scarfs and jackets that have fallen off their hooks, all while trying to stay quiet in case they wake up Feuilly, who wakes at the drop of a pin in comparison to Bahorel. Grantaire heads up the stairs in front of Enjolras, half crawling with his hands out in front of him as Enjolras follows behind. 

Grantaire gropes for the doorhandle to his bedroom and practically falls inside, only kept upright by Enjolras quickly grabbing his elbow. He puts all of his concentration into stumbling over to his bed without looking at Enjolras even once, keeping his back to him as he kicks off his shoes and collapses facedown on the mattress.

Enjolras waits for Grantaire to move or twitch or _anything_ just so that he knows he’s not unconscious or actually dead. All Enjolras gets is a little annoyed kick of Grantaire’s leg and general fidgeting to calm the blood pumping loudly around his ears. Grantaire makes a frustrated sound that mostly gets lost in a pillow and Enjolras cautiously walks over.

“Are you alright? I mean – do you feel okay?” Enjolras bends to try to get a peek at Grantaire’s face but it’s completely buried between two pillows and all that’s visible is a spill of particularly matted black hair. 

“Everything is uncomfy,” Grantaire grumbles, and he flops his legs about futilely for a second. “So disgusting. Me. Everything. I don’t know.”

Enjolras takes a few steps closer until his shins are knocking against the side of the bed. “Can you sit up for me?”

Grantaire’s face emerges from the pillows and looks at Enjolras blearily before he attempts something of a nod. He starts by pulling himself up onto his elbows and knees and rests there for a moment, before crawling over to Enjolras to sit on the edge of the mattress. Now that Enjolras has little to worry about other than looking after Grantaire here and now he can focus on all the details he’d missed in Montparnasse’s flat and in the taxi.

Firstly, there’s the stench of vomit that has Enjolras trying not to breathe too deeply, but it’s intermixed with a fainter smell of blood. The source of that lingers on Grantaire’s t-shirt: several stains here and there, and a splatter of drying blood down the front. 

“Is this yours?” Enjolras asks, pointing towards the blood. 

“The shirt? Oh, the blood.” Grantaire looks down and rubs circles in the blotch with his finger until the tip comes away stained with red. “Mmm, I had a nosebleed.”

“I’ll get some clean clothes,” Enjolras says, giving a little tug at Grantaire’s shirt. “Come on, you can’t wear this.” 

Grantaire gets stuck halfway through pulling the thing off and Enjolras has to extract his arm and free his head from the material. The shirt peels away from Grantaire’s skin, damp with cold sweat, and Enjolras puts a hand to Grantaire’s forehead.

“Don’t.” Grantaire swats Enjolras’ hand away and starts unbuckling his belt instead, eventually managing to wriggle his jeans down without standing up. Grantaire gives up as soon as he realises he can’t get them past his ankles – and he almost topples over trying – and reluctantly lets Enjolras pull them off. Enjolras freezes, jeans bunched up in his hands as he looks over Grantaire’s body.

Grantaire’s legs are bruised to hell and there’s a nasty graze on his knee that must match the rip in his jeans. There’s another large purpling bruise that stretches up his side and curls around part of his ribcage, and Grantaire’s elbows are red-raw with cuts and scrapes. Then there’s the jut and poke of bones everywhere, and Enjolras can see plain and clear that Grantaire is skinnier than usual. Enjolras tries to keep his expression entirely neutral, knowing how easily Grantaire picks up on these things; knowing how far Grantaire will take it and twist it. He looks away and throws Grantaire’s clothes in a hamper in the corner. 

Grantaire’s breathing is heavy and laboured when Enjolras comes back with a fresh t-shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms that Grantaire positively scowls at. Enjolras tosses them at him and watches Grantaire give them a death glare of a degree that is usually only directed at Enjolras himself. 

“No, it’s too hot.” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and runs both hands through his hair. “At least put the shirt on. I know you feel hot but it’s cold in here and you’ll wake up feeling worse.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Grantaire says through gritted teeth. He makes a point of putting the t-shirt on himself before he lies down on his side and faces the wall. Enjolras tries to pull the sheet and duvet over Grantaire but he only kicks them back down as though they’ve personally offended him. “I feel like I’m on fire, ugh.”

Enjolras resigns himself to defeat and sets himself down in the battered leather armchair in the alcove of Grantaire’s room.

He watches carefully, eyes squinting through the dark as unease whorls inside of him and whips up a storm of nausea and ever-growing worry. Enjolras’ fingers dig into the cracked green leather of the chair while Grantaire trembles in a foetal position, his spine curved away from Enjolras and its knobs and ridges visible through his shirt.

It’s at least ten minutes until Grantaire speaks again, and Enjolras’ muscles feel tight and rigid with a hundred different anxieties.

“I need a new tattoo,” Grantaire announces out of nowhere, and Enjolras isn’t even sure whether he’s talking to himself or expecting an answer. 

“What?” 

“I fucked up again so I have to.” Grantaire trails his fingertips over the lines on his arms and his whole body jolts with a shiver. There’s another stretch of tense silence before Grantaire asks: “Why are you still here?”

Enjolras feels like screaming and tearing the room apart but he counts to three and tries to think of a response that won’t set Grantaire off. “I’m looking after you.”

Grantaire makes a choked sound and curls in on himself even tighter, his chin pressed against his chest as he tries to bury his face further into the pillow. 

“You’re not real. This is just – bad fucking trip – I can tell,” Grantaire babbles, before he adds more quietly: “You’re not real but I can’t make you go away. I can’t – you won’t get out.” 

“R, I’m real. I’m right here.”

“God, _no_. They’re trying to – I’m dying, _god_ I’m dying – they want it to really hurt.”

“You’re fine. You’re alive and you’re fine – who are you talking about?”

“I’m going to die, I am. They want to drown me. You’re choking so you stitch your mouth shut but they keep coming back and they won’t stop until you’re dead, so you drown yourself instead. Right?” Grantaire’s entire body is violently shaking again and Enjolras doesn’t know what else to do but to slowly get to his feet and perch on the edge of the mattress. “I just wanted to muffle the voices – to not feel it – but they only got louder and I _know_ I’m trash, I just wanted to not feel it for a while,” Grantaire says, and every word sounds gargled like he’s forcing them out and trying not to hyperventilate.

“Listen to me—” Enjolras starts, pressing his hand to Grantaire’s shoulder. The rest of his sentence is swiftly cut off by Grantaire flopping onto his back and staring at him in absolute terror, his skin drained to point of greyness. 

“ _No_. It’s a trip, you’re not here you’re not – everything is a fucking horrible trip.”

Enjolras grabs Grantaire’s hand and interlocks their fingers, his blunt nails digging into Grantaire’s skin. It’s so painfully hard to look at Grantaire when he’s like this, but Enjolras searches his cloudy bloodshot eyes until he’s looking back. 

“This is real, Grantaire, this is very real,” Enjolras says firmly, trying to keep his voice even. He brings his other hand up to Grantaire’s wet cheek and makes sure Grantaire is paying attention. “ _I’m_ real. I’m right here and you’re safe, okay? You’re not—” Enjolras pauses, sucking in a shaky breath before the lump in his throat can get even bigger. “You’re not dying. I’m here and you’re safe, I promise.” Enjolras squeezes Grantaire’s hand hard enough that it must hurt, but Enjolras needs those words just as much to convince himself that Grantaire’s not dying when he’s looking up wide-eyed and blinking. 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything for an excruciating amount of time, until he nods and tries to turn away from Enjolras’ hand. Enjolras just slides his hand into Grantaire’s hair instead and makes sure Grantaire is still looking, makes it clear that he needs a little more reassurance than that.

“Okay,” Grantaire says quietly, his lower lip wobbling before he bites down on it. 

Enjolras lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, his chest deflating and shoulders sagging with the smallest bit of relief. “Yeah?” 

Grantaire reaches out, his fingers stretching towards Enjolras before he squeezes his eyes shut and whips his hand back. “Don’t leave,” Grantaire says softly, and he turns onto his side away from Enjolras. 

Enjolras pushes away from the bed and retreats back to the armchair to sit hunched over with his elbows digging into his knees and his chin resting on his hands. It’s a hollow, empty mess – Grantaire, Enjolras sitting here, both of them. And for a while Enjolras just stays completely still, wondering what the hell he’s doing here when he _knows_ – he knows Grantaire is a broken shell of a person and always has. Yet the same part of him knows that Grantaire is so much more than that. But he can’t leave; not now when Grantaire is scared and trying to hide his tears and always, _always_ curling in tighter on himself. God, he could have just stayed in the Musain and waited to hear news of Grantaire from someone else. He could have said, _shit that’s terrible_ , and gone home to write a speech to keep his mind off it. But instead he insisted on seeing this, on giving into morbid curiosity and finding out what Grantaire is really like at his worst.

It’s a waste of time to think about that. The what-ifs are completely useless because they were never realistically an option. Enjolras has never quite been able to shake Grantaire; he just keeps giving him chances and more ways to crawl inside and scratch under his skin. This infatuation—that’s what he has to call it now, there’s no other word—has a shockingly tight grip on him, because Enjolras isn’t an idiot, he’s well aware that he’s tangling himself in knots with an absolute mess of a man who takes self-destructive to a whole new level. 

“What are you doing?” Grantaire asks in a tired voice, and he sounds _so small_ and Enjolras has no idea what to do anymore.

“You asked me to stay.” 

Grantaire makes a frustrated sound and fights the sheets constricting his ankles to roll over and face Enjolras. He looks a little more like himself now, iron defences up and self-deprecation all over his face (but without the smile, and the smile he wears with it is _so_ important).

“I mean with me. What are you doing with _me_?” Grantaire almost manages to look vicious and insecure at the same time, his eyes saying one thing and the hard set of his mouth saying another. “I’m a _wreck_ , a total fucking train wreck, so why are you swanning around with me? And I _know_ it’s not about the sex or whatever, because you. You could get anyone you want to sleep with you in a heartbeat but you’re with _me_.” 

Enjolras feels his stomach turn and the headache that’s been thumping dully for the past hour has cranked up to a drilling in his cranium. How does he answer a question like that when he doesn’t _have_ an answer – not even for himself. He wishes he did, wishes he knew why he’s so transfixed by Grantaire so he could tell him right now and make Grantaire understand. But Enjolras doesn’t have the words for that so he rubs his temples and stares at the carpet.

“You’re important to me,” Enjolras says, his voice straining against that awful lump in his throat that just won’t go away. “I need you – we all do. You’re important to all of us.”

Grantaire’s eyes look glossy and bright again but Enjolras has barely looked up before Grantaire is turning back onto his other side and kicking the sheets completely off the bed. About five minutes later Enjolras thinks he hears a mumble from Grantaire, but wishful thinking makes him stay silent and hope Grantaire is just nodding off.

Enjolras means to leave after he’s sure Grantaire is asleep – he has work in the morning and he’s exhausted right down to the bones. But he stays, sitting stiffly in that lumpy armchair, watching the rise and fall of Grantaire’s chest and listening to his breathing. He gets up once when Grantaire starts shivering and hugs his knees to his chest, and Enjolras gathers the sheets from the floor and spreads them out across the bed again, laying another blanket over Grantaire just to be sure.

Enjolras stays up watching Grantaire until night dissipates into day, greyish-blue light filling in from outside through Grantaire’s makeshift curtains. He squeezes all of his limbs into the armchair and rests his chin on his knees as he tries to keep his eyes open, and tries not to think about the tight knot in his chest that hasn’t loosened since he stepped foot in Montparnasse’s flat.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> people have been amazing and made things!! you guys are ridiculous and amazing please don't ever stop, I love you all dearly.
> 
> [here](http://freakdove.tumblr.com/post/69503364177/wut-enjolras-and-grantaire-from-the-last-chapter) is mega cute fanart of chapter 11 by freakdove  
> [here](http://rouge-la-flamme-de-la-colere.tumblr.com/post/69210834259/too-afraid-to-love-you-a-playlist-inspired-by) is honestly such a wicked cool fanmix by rouge-la-flamme-de-la-colere  
> AND i made some posts about my faceclaims for these dorks! [part 1](http://between2devils.tumblr.com/post/70131169605) and [part 2]()
> 
> y'all are honestly the best and i have no idea how this became a fic worthy of fanworks in response aHH TAKE MY BEATING HEART TAKE IT


	13. lavender dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (tw for brief mention of past suicide attempt)

Enjolras wakes up with a crick in his neck and drool drying in the corner of his mouth. The piercing sound of an alarm is tearing through his eardrums and _good fucking god_ he needs to get rid of that noise. That would require opening his eyes though, and Enjolras can’t quite bear to do that yet. The ringing is shrill and fills the room incessantly until Enjolras gives up with a reluctant groan.

It takes him six seconds to unfold himself from the armchair he’s still squashed into, and another two to remember where he is, his eyes flying open at the sudden revelation. Enjolras blinks and the sound keeps going and the bed is most definitely empty. 

Well, not completely empty.

Grantaire is no longer tossing and turning in the sheets, mumbling and whimpering through constantly interrupted sleep, that’s for sure. But a battered looking alarm clock with a post-it note stuck to it has been placed on Grantaire’s pillow in place of him. Enjolras squints against the pale morning light and rubs the sleep out of his eyes before he stands up and feels the full force of pins and needles in every one of his muscles. He wobbles over to Grantaire’s bed and promptly switches the alarm off, peeling the note off before he turns the clock over in his hands: an old kid’s thing with Spider-Man adorning the face in a matching red and blue colour scheme, and it’s covered in enough scratches and dents to give Enjolras an idea of how Grantaire reacts to waking up.

Enjolras smiles to himself and thinks of the comic book themed t-shirts Grantaire always wears to bed, and then pictures him waking up with his hair sticking out in tufts and throwing the clock at the opposite wall. There’s definitely a blackened dent in the plaster that confirms his suspicions. Enjolras sets the clock down on the bedside table and turns his attention to the post-it note instead. 

_Thanks for staying – gone to Ep’s place._

_Sorry about the alarm, didn’t want you to miss work :(_

-       _R_

Enjolras reads it again and again before his fingers tighten around the note and crumple the paper into a sharp ball in his palm. He’s not angry; just frustrated and confused and no less scared than he was last night. 

He grabs the clock again, realising that he hadn’t even taken in the time, and blinks against his exhaustion-clouded sight until the hands come into focus. It’s just past seven, which explains the puffy eyes that are determined not to stay open after a mere hour and a half of sleep. Enjolras will admit that it was a considerate gesture, but still suspicious. He imagines Grantaire quietly slipping out of bed, sparing Enjolras one last glance before sneaking out into what was left of the early darkness.

Enjolras leaves soon after that, grateful for Feuilly’s early work hours that have him long gone and Bahorel’s inability to wake up in the morning and drag himself to work. Enjolras goes back to his own house, hearing the muted sounds of both Courfeyrac and Combeferre having breakfast in the kitchen with the news playing on the television. Enjolras avoids them and heads straight upstairs to collapse face down into his bed. He muffles a groan when he realises that he’s still wearing his work clothes from yesterday, and isn’t _that_ just dandy and wonderful. It takes a minute or two, but eventually he finds the resolve to get changed and brush his teeth, every action feeling like a motion he’s not really present for. 

Work is more of the same thing. He powers through tasks at the museum with his usual efficiency, but at the end of the day he has no recollection of what he’s done or who he’s even spoken to. He checks his phone as often as he can get away with, constantly hoping for a text from Grantaire or even Eponine, just to know what’s going on. It’s pointless though; his empty inbox just mocks him each time until Enjolras switches it off and throws it to the bottom of his bag. 

 

Wednesday evenings at the Musain are for meetings, and Enjolras goes along as usual after he’s run some absolutely pointless errands at the Amnesty office. He’d already sent a mass text to the group earlier in the day to let them all know that he and Eponine had gotten Grantaire home last night and he’d left to see her in the morning, and as soon as Enjolras enters the back room they all fix him with a range of stares. Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Joly are giving him soft sympathetic eyes; Feuilly and Bahorel look like they’re itching with curiosity; and Bossuet and Jehan are just looking at him sadly. 

It’s more than Enjolras can handle, so he turns back to the bar and finds Musichetta missing. He still orders a pint of beer and stands there idly while he waits for it, trying to work out what he’s going to say to the others when they ask – because they _will_ ask. He wants to ask Musichetta what he’s supposed to do now – now that he’s seen a private, stripped-bare part of Grantaire that makes his heart hurt and his head throb. Musichetta would have a pearl of wisdom and she wouldn’t look at him like a wounded animal, much like half of his friends are doing.

When he goes back everyone is talking among themselves and Enjolras is sure that both Courfeyrac and Combeferre had given them a quick talking to after he’d bolted. Courfeyrac is wearing his warm friendly smile again when Enjolras sits down next to him, and Enjolras is absolutely certain about the pep talk. His eyes flicker towards the back of their group – the vacant round table between Bahorel and Joly.

It’s stupid, but Enjolras half expects Grantaire to be sitting there with his notebook, still pretending that he’s taking notes when Enjolras full well knows that he’s doodling the entire time. As it is, Grantaire is not there with a bitten back grin on his face or his tongue poking out as he draws caricatures of Enjolras. 

He doesn’t show up later either, which also means that Enjolras has nobody to rile him up until he snaps and gets into a blazing argument. The meeting drags on slowly despite everything getting done much quicker than usual without Grantaire’s interruptions, and they all feel it. His absence is the elephant the in the room and his empty spot is radiating waves of tension that nobody wants to mention. They all know that something dreadful happened last night – know that Enjolras was witness to some of it – but nobody wants to shatter the delicate façade they’ve built up. 

Enjolras goes home as soon as he’s tied up everything from the meeting and spent a relatively decent amount of time talking to everyone. Truth be told, he feels exhausted from the whole thing and he knows he wouldn’t survive a night in the Musain feeling like this, not when he’d be surrounded by happy people sipping pints of beer with no clue of what happened yesterday.

So Enjolras goes home alone and spends half an hour in the shower, not even caring that the water is too hot as he stands under the spray and lets it slide down his body in rivulets, skin turning pink like a lobster and fingers going wrinkly and head spinning from the thick steam filling the room. When he comes out and wobbles on his feet, Enjolras realises that his almost sleepless night has finally caught up with him and he’s completely exhausted. He’s glad that Courfeyrac and Combeferre hadn’t insisted on coming home with him, because the only thing he’s prepared to do right now is crawl into bed in his ridiculous onesie and go straight to sleep.  

\---- 

Enjolras mopes for the duration of Thursday and Friday, and when he wakes up at one in afternoon on Saturday he finds the house completely empty. He’s in the bathroom when he decides that this could go one of two ways. 

In theory, he could use this to his advantage and spread all of his stuff out on the kitchen table, instead of his bedroom floor like usual, and get all of his extra Amnesty work done before late afternoon. Or, this being the much more self indulgent and pathetic option, he could watch television in his pants and feel sorry for himself while eating cereal straight from the box. 

He goes for the second option, telling himself that he works better when Courfeyrac and Combeferre are around anyway, and he drags his duvet down into the living room to make a nest in the sofa. He also refuses to believe that there’s anything wrong with this – that as a nineteen-year-old boy with a horrific crush on his neighbour, he should be doing anything _other_ than watching cartoons at midday with a cup of sugary tea steaming next to him. 

All right, so maybe there’s something wrong with the fact that he’s sitting upside-down on the sofa, his head hanging off the edge and his legs stretched up on the wall behind, with a bowl of Haribo balancing precariously on his chest as a sad excuse for breakfast. He wouldn’t feel so ridiculous if someone had remembered to buy cereal. Or just any breakfast foods at all. 

He’s been lolling about there for an hour when his phone rings from where it’s wedged between the sofa cushions. Enjolras’ whole body twitches in response, and it is possible that there is an incredibly intense sugar rush taking over his entire nervous system at this point. 

“Hello?” 

“ _Enjolras_ ,” Jehan purrs, every syllable drawn out slowly. “Are you home?” 

“Yeah, what is it?” 

“Come over, would you? I’ve got a certain craving for your dulcet tones of passion.” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and turns the telly down until it’s just murmuring in the background. “How high are you?” 

Jehan’s soft laughter comes through before he happily says, “Yeah, caked as a bake. Had a healthy green breakfast.” 

The awkward position means that Enjolras feels like he’s pulled a muscle when he starts laughing too hard, and it doesn’t help that Jehan’s own wheezing laughter is contagious and spurring him on too. Eventually Enjolras manages to calm Jehan down enough to remember what they were talking about, and he takes a look at his sorry state on the sofa. His hair hasn’t seen a comb in days and he’s down to his last pair of clean pants that he accidentally turned pink in the washing machine – ripped just under the waistband as well. 

“I’m really not fit for public transport right now,” Enjolras sighs, scratching his stomach as he ponders whether he’d be allowed on the bus in a pair of ratty boxer briefs. 

“What?” 

Enjolras’ face scrunches up at the surprised confusion in Jehan’s voice as he echoes back, “What?” 

“I’m with Grantaire! Just pop over.”

“Oh,” Enjolras breathes tensely, all of his muscles seizing up at the sound of Grantaire’s name. “I don’t know. I haven’t even showered yet.” 

“You’re being weird, stop it.” 

Enjolras lets out a huff of frustration as he digs his heels firmly into the wall. He knows he should go over, especially since he’s been dying to see Grantaire just to make sure he’s all right. Ever since he woke up alone and exhausted in Grantaire’s bedroom he’s been worrying himself sick, wondering whether Grantaire will never want to see him again after something like that. He wants Grantaire to know that that’s simply not true at all, but the thought of seeing him again terrifies Enjolras. 

It feels like every time Enjolras closes his eyes he sees Grantaire on that night. Blood soaking through the front of his shirt and drying in the crooks of his elbows, reddening bruises standing out on his greyish skin, and eyes bottomless and black and empty. 

“I don’t think it’s a—” 

Jehan cuts Enjolras off with a long-suffering groan before he can even finish. “He wants to see you,” Jehan says quietly around some rustling, and Enjolras suspects that he’s shielding his mouth with one hand. “Just come, it’ll be fun. I promise.” 

“He said that?” Enjolras asks hesitantly, his heartbeat quickly picking up speed. 

“Not in so many words… but he won’t shut up about you. He’s quite stoned too. You’d make him happy.” 

“Where is he?” Enjolras asks cautiously, and he pretends that he doesn’t feel a little bit giddy at that last piece of information. 

“Well right this minute he is peeing.” 

Enjolras lets his body slide down off the sofa until he’s sprawled on his back on the floor and biting the insides of his cheeks in thought. “Okay, see you in twenty minutes.” 

“Yay!”

Enjolras muffles a groan in his arm almost as soon as Jehan hangs up, his body thrumming with a gentle anxiety that makes him want to stay heaped on the floor for the rest of time. He lets five minutes pass like that, television still humming quietly behind him, until he pulls himself together and gets in the shower. It’s no use trying to do anything with his hair now, and Enjolras tries not to think about how tightly the curls are going dry after he’s rubbed it down with a towel, instead focusing on trying to brush his teeth while hopping into a pair of jogging bottoms at the same time. 

It’s Jehan who opens the door when he knocks and Enjolras gets pulled into a bone-crushing hug in the hallway before Jehan kicks the door shut and drags him into the living with one hand. Jehan is definitely wearing long johns – polka dot long johns and knitted socks and a fluffy white jumper, which is probably the latest thing his grandma has knitted for him. Not to mention his hair – sitting in two little buns at the top of his head.

Enjolras just shakes his head as Jehan tugs him along. He has long since given up on trying to understand anything that he wears and knows it’s best to leave him to it.

Enjolras stops when he sees Grantaire in the living room, arranged in the same position that he’d been in when Jehan called. His ankles are dangling over the edge of the sofa back, his pyjama bottoms rolled up and slipping down his calves, and there’s a slither of skin showing from where his t-shirt has ridden up his stomach. Enjolras swallows, watching Grantaire hum around the spliff between his lips with his eyes closed as smoke wafts around the room, curling around the music coming from the record player in the corner. 

“Alright, angel?” Grantaire’s eyes are open and sleepy as he breaks into an upside-down smile, and Enjolras can’t help but return it. 

“Hey stranger,” replies Enjolras, desperately trying to mask the way he’s checking Grantaire over as quickly and carefully as he can. 

The bruises on the inside of Grantaire’s elbows have faded to yellow circles and his skin has got some colour back. It’s just so lovely to see him like this again, after Enjolras’ head has been filled with nothing but recurring images of Grantaire pale as death and gaunt as a corpse. He’s still smiling, hair tumbling down in springy curls as he blows rings of smoke up into the air, and Enjolras pokes his finger through one before he sits down. 

“Aw, don’t tell me you missed me,” Grantaire laughs, and the sound makes Enjolras want to kiss every inch of his face in sheer relief. 

“We got through the meeting very efficiently and we missed you very much.” Enjolras can’t help but looks at Grantaire fondly, watching a grin spread across his face before he laughs again.

“How terrible.” 

“It _was_ ,” groans Jehan as he flops onto the other sofa. “It was boring. Don’t leave us again.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes and pulls himself upright, shuffling around on the sofa until he settles on stretching his body out with his legs in Enjolras’ lap. Enjolras adores these moments; when Grantaire is just drunk enough or just high enough to stop thinking about the way he’s touching Enjolras, whether this gesture is okay and whether he’s allowed to pull him into a hug or not. Grantaire doesn’t think about any of those things with the others – Enjolras knows this, is haunted by it – but sometimes it seems like every movement around Enjolras has to be a careful calculation on Grantaire’s part.

Maybe that’s why Enjolras puts a hand on Grantaire’s ankle, aiming for casual and friendly, but not sure he achieves it when he catches Grantaire’s eyes lowering to observe where their skin meets. Grantaire doesn’t comment on it though, his eyebrows only raising a little bit before his arms lift above his head and he starts stretching out like a cat, spine arching up off the cushions and the line of his throat bared. 

“Could I tempt you to a spliff, Enjolras? Or maybe a breakfast bowl?” Grantaire asks through a yawn, and Enjolras tries not to imagine them doing this all the time: sprawling out in one sofa on a Saturday afternoon, tired and loose limbed. 

He can’t do that though, he’s not allowed to think about those things. 

“It’s two in the afternoon, I already had breakfast.”

“Spoil sport.” Grantaire sticks his tongue out and nudges Enjolras’ knee before he’s smiling again, and Enjolras really doesn’t know what to do with the way Grantaire keeps looking at him. His skin feels like it’s shrinking around him, insides too hot to be contained and fingers twitching with the need to touch.

Jehan is lounging on his front and eating grapes out of an asymmetrical bowl that sags down on one side, much like most of the dishware that Enjolras has seen in Grantaire’s house. 

“Does Feuilly make all of your plates and bowls?” 

“Only the good ones,” Grantaire snorts, nodding to a mug on the coffee table that says ‘I LOVE R’ around the outside. “A few years ago he decided he’d teach himself pottery and we adorned the house with his reject pieces.” 

“Didn’t Bahorel smash all your normal plates when he brought that Greek girl home?” Jehan pitches in, his mouth filled with at least ten grapes.

“He did. I have the scar to prove it from where I stepped in the great big fucking mess he made.” Grantaire shoves his foot in Enjolras face, flexing the sole and wiggling his toes right in front of Enjolras’ eyes until he’s laughing and pushing Grantaire’s foot back down again. “I hope she was a bloody good lay – I had to get four stitches and I couldn’t kickbox for _ages_.” 

“You do kickboxing?” Enjolras asks, eyebrows drawn together as he tries to picture it.

Grantaire looks back at him smugly with one corner of his mouth quirked and says, “I did. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, wonder boy,” before he takes a long drag of the spliff he’s been twirling in his fingers.

“Do I need to come over there and separate you two with a stick?” 

Jehan throws a handful of grapes at them – which Grantaire tries and fails to catch in his mouth – and laughs with his nose all crinkled up until his cheeks are pink and tears are sliding down his face as he gasps for breath.

They sit there not really doing anything for a while, just tossing grapes at each other and chatting a little. Jehan and Grantaire are content to laze about in a room that smells like weed, incense, and brownies that Jehan had put in the oven just before Enjolras had come over. They listen to the music and Grantaire hums along, sometimes tapping his foot in time with the beat, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the armrest. At one point they both whine at Enjolras until he gets up to flip the record, but the smile that fits itself on Grantaire’s lips again is worth it. 

“Can we do my hair now?” Jehan asks eventually, after he’s been dancing his fingers through the air and been entranced by every delicate movement, his lips silently moving as though he’d been writing sonnets in his head. “If we do it now then we can get the brownies out afterwards.” 

Enjolras watches Grantaire hop up and disappear upstairs for a moment, only to return with a towel and a pair of scissors. Jehan takes one of the wooden chairs from the kitchen and drags it into the middle of the living room before he conjures up his backpack and tips out a whole load of things. Most of the pile seems to be made up of scrap bits of paper covered in illegible writing, some of them crumpled beyond recognition and some of them folded into neat squares. There’s a small collection of different kinds and colours of pens, a well used notebook, an anthology of poems that Enjolras doesn’t recognise, and plastic bag.

Apparently the only thing that Jehan actually wants is the plastic bag because he plucks it from the pile and leaves the rest at his feet when he sits down. Grantaire comes up from behind and pulls out the little buns on his head, letting Jehan’s hair fall down past his shoulders in soft waves. It’s a good few inches longer than it was in July, when Jehan’s tan was still radiant and Courfeyrac was pulling at the blond tips. 

“You’re going to look like a woodland sprite,” Grantaire mumbles as he peeks inside the plastic bag. 

“Perfect.” 

“Should I be worried about what’s happening?” Enjolras says, to which Grantaire and Jehan turn to him and snort. 

“Might as well enslave you too – mix this up, would you?” 

Grantaire tosses the plastic bag at Enjolras and starts running a comb through Jehan’s hair, scissors poised in his other hand. As Grantaire starts chopping at Jehan’s hair, Enjolras pulls out a tub of purple hair dye and another tub of mixing paste.

“You’re dying your hair _lavender dream_?” He asks, squinting at the label while he goes to the kitchen to get a bowl. He pauses to watch Grantaire working away, trimming off the last inch or so until the floor is littered with clumps of blonde hair. 

“I’m going to fuck up your fringe, I hope you realise that.” Grantaire raises an eyebrow at it, hair falling right over Jehan’s eyes and stopping halfway down the bridge of his nose. “But if we can pretend that Eponine’s wonky fringe is edgy and cool then I suppose one more won’t hurt.” 

Enjolras shakes his head as he mixes up the contents of the two tubs with a brush, the purple dye lightening to a pastel shade in quick swirls. “You two are mad. You’re never coming near my hair, ever.” 

Grantaire mutters something about drama queens before he starts pestering Enjolras for the dye. Enjolras hands it over and walks around to sit on the other side of the kitchen counter to watch, picking at the rest of the grapes that Jehan had left in the bag. It’s sort of calming actually, watching Grantaire slather colour onto the ends of Jehan’s hair, painting over the all the light tips that had seemed so new and strange in the summer. 

Jehan lifts his feet onto the seat and hugs his knees, getting bits of dye on his legs as his hair falls forward. Grantaire tells him to stop fidgeting; a smudge of purple already on his own face from where he’d scratched his cheek. Enjolras thinks he should probably be wearing gloves but it’s far too late now; Grantaire’s palms and fingers are already covered in dye. It occurs to Enjolras that Jehan’s first tattoo was lavender too – a sprig of it on the inside of his forearm in black line art. 

“Why lavender?” Enjolras asks, and Jehan’s smile is warm and relaxed. 

“It’s my favourite plant. Lavender’s wonderful – it does so many things. When I can’t sleep I put it in my pillow, in summer we hang bunches of it around the house to repel insects, it’s good for wounds too, and I take a bath with lavender oil when I’ve got a headache or I feel a bit shit. Lavender is like, the fairy godmother of plants.”

Enjolras has know idea what plants are supposed do so he just nods and absorbs the information, filing it away so he can remember to get Jehan a lavender themed birthday present.

“Right, you’re all done.” 

Grantaire grabs some tin foil from a cupboard in the kitchen and tears strips of it off to wind around the ends of Jehan’s hair, claiming that Jehan will probably end up with a completely purple face otherwise.

“Sure you don’t want a special treatment from these magic hands?” Grantaire slinks over and wiggles his fingers in front of Enjolras’ face, pressing his forefinger to the end of Enjolras’ nose before his hand is batted away. 

“Absolutely not,” Enjolras says, quickly wiping his nose with his sleeve. 

“Suit yourself,” he singsongs in reply. He stops in front of the oven and presses his face against the glass, before cracking the door open a little to peek in. “Jehan, are the brownies ready? I can’t tell. Maybe I should stab them.” 

Jehan comes rushing over and knocks Grantaire out of the way before he open the oven door. “Do _not_ massacre my brownies or I will massacre _you_.” He grabs a knife from the drawer and pokes the brownies with it right in the middle, before grabbing a tea towel to pull them out. “They’re still gooey but it means they’ll be perfect if we wait for them to set. So _don’t_ touch them or I will break your fingers and you’ll never paint again, mister.” 

“Yes sir.” Grantaire raises his hand in a salute and goes cross-eyed when Jehan turns to look at him. 

Jehan stands in front of the fridge with one hand on his hip and the other scratching his chin absently, and Enjolras can only assume that he’s looking at the assortment of alphabet fridge magnets scattered across its surface. 

“Are you coming to the meeting next week?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire looks over his shoulder at him. 

“Yeah, why would I not?” 

Jehan is rearranging the plastic pieces now, and when Enjolras glances over he only catches a few words: beauty is everywhere. 

“I don’t know,” Enjolras says, because Grantaire is still looking at him like he doesn’t understand. “I was just wondering.”

“Oh. Well I am, unless that’s not okay.” Enjolras is about to tell Grantaire that of course it’s okay and he’d be ridiculous to think otherwise, but Grantaire is tapping on Jehan’s tailbone and telling him it’s time to go rinse his hair out in five minutes. 

Jehan touches the foil in his hair as if he’s forgotten it was even there, and Enjolras is reminded of just how stoned he actually is as he shuffles off upstairs, his movements sluggish and happy. Enjolras looks at the fridge again to see what Jehan had written, and he feels a weight in his stomach when he knows what he has to do next. 

Beauty is everywhere, and everything dies. 

“Morbid one, isn’t he?” Grantaire says, looking blankly at the brightly coloured letters. He smiles back at Enjolras but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and _god_ this is going to be so hard, Enjolras knows it. 

“Can we talk?” 

Grantaire turns away and deliberately doesn’t look at Enjolras when he says, “What about?” 

Maybe hard was an understatement. “The other night. Your birthday.” 

Grantaire stays frozen in place for only a second, and then walks around the counter to sit back down in the living room. He looks uncomfortable, scared even, as he sits pressed up against the arm of the sofa with stiff limbs and a blank expression. “I don’t want to. It’s done, can’t we just leave it?” 

Enjolras baulks, not completely surprised at Grantaire’s defensiveness but only disappointed that he’d hoped for more. He follows Grantaire around and sits down next to him. He leaves a barrier of space between them, consciously trying not to block Grantaire in when he sits on one leg and faces him. 

“We carry you out of Montparnasse’s flat after you’ve been missing for two days, and then I wake up and you’re gone. Do you not think I—” Enjolras stops himself. He doesn’t want to say he deserves anything because he probably doesn’t, and it will do nothing to make Grantaire open up to him. “Please, just talk to me. I’m – I’ve been going crazy these past few days and you’re just—” Enjolras pauses again, this time because his throat is closing up and his voice is going to crack at any moment.

“I’m just what?” Grantaire looks at Enjolras with something halfway between terror and annoyance. 

Enjolras makes a garbled sound of frustration and rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hands until all he can see is something like television static. “You’re acting like nothing happened and everything is fine, but I _can’t_ do that. I can’t forget the way you looked or the things you said and it’s been eating away at me, but you won’t fucking tell me _anything_.” 

Grantaire starts shaking his head, all colour drained from his face as starts pleading with Enjolras. “I can’t. You don’t understand, I just can’t—” 

“So make me understand.” 

“Please don’t do this, please don’t,” Grantaire says quietly, pulling his knees up to his chest so that he can curl up into the cushions and face Enjolras, his eyes wider than they’ve been all day. 

“I know you think I don’t care but I do, and it hurts me when I see you like that and I can’t brush over it before you’re my friend and I care about my friends. Do you get that? Do you realise how scared I am, knowing that there’s something wrong and being unable to help you?” Enjolras voice does crack then, and his throat is so tight that he can barely breathe and every word has to be forcibly pushed out. 

“That’s not fair,” Grantaire whispers, burying his face behind his knees so that Enjolras can only see his hair moving as he shakes his head again. “Don’t you fucking do that, it’s not fair.” 

“Grantaire—” 

“It’s not, okay!” Grantaire chokes out, his head flying up. “I can’t fucking – I can’t deny you anything and I don’t want to tell you because I don’t want your forced pity when all you’re thinking about is how fucking shit I am. But you’re sitting there and telling me you care and _that’s not fair_.” 

Enjolras feels an itchy shudder crawl its way up his spine but he doesn’t dare say anything. He listens to the sound of Grantaire’s ragged breathing that borders on hyperventilation, waiting for him to start speaking again. Only he doesn’t, and they sit there staring at each other with racing pulses and teeth digging into the insides of their cheeks. 

“What about the tattoos?” Enjolras asks eventually, and Grantaire touches his fingers to his left forearm. 

“What?” 

“After I took you home you said something about having to get another one. Because you fucked up.” 

Grantaire’s shoulders slump and he sags back into the sofa, as if some of the tension has leaked out of his body and left him boneless. “Can’t keep my bloody mouth shut, can I?” 

“What did you mean?” Enjolras hesitantly presses, and Grantaire seems to have no more fight left in him because he puts his legs down and holds his arm up to Enjolras.

“These ones here.” He points to the inked lines that wrap around his forearm, just below his elbow and alternating between red and blue. There are five all together, three red and two blue, with the last red line looking slightly more raised than the others, and Enjolras isn’t sure that he remembers there being more than four until now. “It’s a sort of tradition I guess, I don’t know. The red ones are when I’ve royally fucked up or my life has run itself into the ground. The blues ones are when I’ve gotten through it and picked myself up again.” 

Enjolras wants to ask, and he knows he shouldn’t but he’s never been very good at containing himself because of social cues. “Can I ask what they’re for? You don’t have to tell me but – I’d like to know, I think.” 

Grantaire’s eyes flicker up to meet his, looking up suspiciously from under his lashes as if Enjolras is losing his mind. He points to the red line furthest from his elbow. “Well I got this one on Thursday. I don’t think I need to spell that one out. I’m sure I told you enough in my drug induced haze.” His finger moves up, skipping the blue line and going straight to the next red one. “This one is a great big mess, really. From when my dad kicked me out and I started on smack, then dropped out of art college and pushed all my friends away. Eponine tried to help but I wasn’t letting _anyone_ help me. I didn’t want it.” 

Enjolras pushes down the nausea that’s filling up his chest and he squeezes his hands into tight fists until his nails are cutting into the skin of his palms. “So what changed?” 

Grantaire smiles at that, small and almost private. “I met Feuilly. I was sort of homeless – working shit bar jobs and trying to crash on people’s sofas because none of my family wanted to know me. Didn’t have anything but a scrap of money and a portfolio of art that I ended up dumping in the river one night. Feuilly was my guardian angel. I was camping out in the bandstand of some park in the middle of December, looking like death with blue lips and black circles under my eyes, and this lanky twat comes over and says he recognises me from an exhibition the college put on last year, and he’s seen me doing street art a while back too. 

“Do you know what he does? He straight up asks me if I need a place to stay, without knowing a fucking thing about me. I mean clearly I looked like a smackhead using the only money he’s got on feeding his habit, but he let me sleep on his sofa for a while anyway. Then one night we came in drunk and both slept in his bed, and we just carried on after that.” Grantaire snorts then, dragging a hand through his hair before he starts laughing again and looks up at the ceiling. “We had sex once. It was weird, but it really wasn’t, you know? It was the first night we shared the bed and I cried and then we had pot noodles afterwards.” 

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say, not even able to make a quip about Grantaire and Feuilly because the atmosphere is still heavy with everything else that Grantaire has been telling him about. The room feels like it’s bursting at the seams with this unburdening of pain – all the things that Grantaire has let fester for god knows how long. 

“Then I met Bahorel in a bar fight – no surprise there – and we all stuck to each other and eventually sorted ourselves out enough so that we could get this place. So yeah, you’ve got them to thank for the semi-functional person you see before you. I think I’m sort of like their baby, or something, so that’s why they swooped in and dragged me home from your house warming party. They worry about me still, even when they don’t need to.” 

“We all do,” Enjolras says softly, because that’s simply not true. It’s no secret that Grantaire has barely got it together, that his entire life is a balancing act that he’s somehow managed to uphold over time. “Worry, I mean. Sometimes we’re worried sick about you.” 

“Well it’s a waste of time,” Grantaire scoffs, and Enjolras knows that this is the start of a different conversation that needs to wait. They can’t do both at one time, and right now Enjolras is intent on finding out all the pockets of Grantaire’s past that might help him understand the man sitting in front of him now. 

“What about the first two?” Enjolras asks, hoping to bring Grantaire back away from his new train of thought. 

“Hm? Oh, right.” Grantaire crosses his arms over his chest and hugs himself tightly. “First time I realised I’m really screwed up, I guess. I was seventeen and I already knew that I wasn’t okay, but I’d never been stuck in a funk for that long and I—” his voice cracks and he looks away from Enjolras, staring at the far corner of the room with his lips tightly pressed together. “Well I took a load of pills, but I fucked it up, didn’t I? I’m so useless that I couldn’t even kill myself and get it right. But I got better, for a while anyway, because my mum was so good to me. She didn’t even tell my dad when he got back from work – just said I had a stomach bug. But she went with me to get my stomach pumped and she took me to counselling and. I dunno, I was eighteen and I wanted a tattoo and it seemed important.”

Enjolras can’t say anything – he physically cannot speak because there’s a lump in his throat and Grantaire looks like he’s just had something ripped away from him – and there’s nothing he _could_ say after that anyway. Not that he’s sorry, because it would sound empty and meaningless to Grantaire’s ears; and nothing that will makes Grantaire think he’s being pitied or that he’s such a brave little soldier for carrying on. 

Grantaire is the one to break the silence, his thumbnail in his mouth when he quietly says, “I wish I hadn’t told you that.” Enjolras’ expression must change because Grantaire’s brow creases and he keeps chewing on his nail. “I really wish I hadn’t fucking opened my mouth, I just, you asked and I was freaking out so I told you and then I couldn’t stop. But I’ve only ever told Eponine and Feuilly because usually I can keep my bloody mouth shut – and I told you, I can’t deny you a goddamn thing, even when it hurts me – and now you’ll probably want to fuck off and want nothing to do with me.” 

Grantaire is babbling nervously to fill the quiet that had been so intimidating before, but he’s talking out of his arse and Enjolras _still_ doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say so he just grabs Grantaire’s wrist and hopes it anchors him a little. Grantaire takes a deep breath and releases it in one go; now focusing on the space that Enjolras has moved into so that they’re pressed next to each other. 

“I’m going to kiss you, okay?” 

Grantaire stares up at Enjolras as if he’s not sure whether this whole thing is a mirage, but Enjolras waits for his small nod before he leans in and presses his lips against Grantaire’s gently, lingering there only for a couple of seconds before he pulls back and lets his thumb rub circles into Grantaire’s wrist. 

“What was that for?” Grantaire asks breathlessly, his eyes wide with shock again. 

Enjolras looks at him softly but doesn’t quite move away. “Thank you.” 

“ _What_?” 

“For telling me.” 

Grantaire opens his mouth to speak but he doesn’t say anything else. He just owlishly blinks at Enjolras in confusion until Jehan comes lightly down the stairs and saunters into the room almost soundlessly, and he yanks his wrist out of Enjolras’ hand. 

“I’m not even going to ask what happened while I was gone. Grantaire looks like a tomato,” says Jehan, arching one eyebrow at Enjolras and looking a little ridiculous in Bahorel’s fluffy dressing gown with a towel wrapped around his head. “Did Courf text you guys?”

Enjolras doesn’t think he even brought his phone with him, and Grantaire pats himself down half-heartedly but still looks as though he’s in shock. 

“You two are away with the fairies,” Jehan teases, and he ambles over to the kitchen to the put the kettle on. “Apparently we’re all going out tonight. Courfeyrac wants to go to this school disco themed club night where they play nothing but the hits of our adolescence.” 

“Jesus Christ, that sounds awful,” Grantaire mutters. He’s settled back into his usual self now that Jehan has diffused the atmosphere and Enjolras has shifted over a few inches. “We have to dress up, don’t we?” 

“Oh yes – and if I were Enjolras I would be worried right now. Courfeyrac says he have plans for you and Combeferre.” 

“Why does he make us do these things? Why can’t we just have a normal weekend where nobody comes home covered in glitter or walks two miles with a traffic cone on their head?” 

“That was one time!” Grantaire shoots back defensively, but he gives up as soon as Enjolras points out that the very same traffic cone is now hoarded in the cupboard under the stairs. 

“It’ll be _fun_.” Jehan’s fruit tea can be smelt from the opposite side of the room, the sweet aroma permeating the air as he rummages inside cupboards and drawers to make two cups of breakfast tea. “We’re going to dress up and have pre-drinks at yours and listen to the Spice Girls to get in the mood and then—Grantaire, there’s a cat at the back door.” 

Grantaire frowns and sits up, craning his neck to get a view of the door. “A cat?” 

“We should let it in. It’s raining and cold and it looks sad.” 

“So open the door.” 

As soon as the door opens the poor thing comes darting inside with its fur dripping all over the floor, and it frantically shakes itself off with a shudder. Jehan pulls the towel off his head, his still-damp hair curling in lavender waves at the tips, and he sweeps the cat up inside of it and bundles the whole thing into his arms.  

“Hello kitty,” Jehan coos as he carries the cat into the living room and squeezes himself between Enjolras and Grantaire. “There’s no collar.” 

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t belong to someone,” Grantaire sighs, but he still reaches out to scratch behind its ears. “Not everyone collars their cats. Especially if they’re house cats.” 

“Well if you want a house cat then you shouldn’t leave it outside when it’s pissing down with rain,” Jehan grumbles, pulling the cat closer to him. “We should name it.” 

“Jehan, it’s not ours. We’ll put it out again once it stops raining.” 

Enjolras squashes himself up against Jehan so he can get a look at the cat’s little face, still burrowed inside the towel to keep warm. He decides to give some attention to the ear that Grantaire’s not scritching, and in no time its purrs are vibrating around the makeshift towel burrito. 

“I’ve always wanted a cat, but Combeferre is allergic and we took pity on him. Shame, really.” 

Grantaire sniggers and looks at Enjolras out of the corner of his eye, smiling gently at him until Enjolras feels like his heart might just burst right that second. 

“You two are terrible,” Grantaire says in exasperation. “If we found a baby on the street you’d probably want to keep it.” 

“Enjolras would kill a baby. He barely remembers to look after himself.” 

Grantaire takes one look at Enjolras slack jaw and look of indignation and bursts into laughter. “He’d take it to work in one of those backpack things. Think of all the women that would chat you up with a baby strapped to your front!” 

Enjolras wrinkles his nose and drags the cat away from Jehan, pulling it into his own lap so he doesn’t have to look at the curve of Grantaire’s mouth when he smirks like that, or his one dimple, or the slenderness of his fingers. “Gay. So gay. One hundred per cent gay over here.” 

“ _I’ll_ look after the kitty,” says Grantaire as he hops over the back of the sofa and plucks it from Enjolras’ lap over his shoulders, “because _you_ have fun things to do with Courfeyrac and I wouldn’t want you to miss out on whatever he has planned.”

Enjolras grimaces and makes a face of longing at the cat, now happy to be buried in Grantaire’s arms with a blanket from the sofa draped over it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> people have been amazing and you guys are the best i could ever ask for??? mega thank to luchia for reccing this on tumblr a couple times because i saw people saying they weren't going to read this until they saw her seal of approval and i am hella grateful wow
> 
> wolfs-toeter drew [this](http://between2devils.tumblr.com/post/72013742534) and [this](http://between2devils.tumblr.com/post/72250731349) and [this](http://between2devils.tumblr.com/post/72262989919) ahhhh
> 
> abi (icarus-drunk orrr u may know her as GingerNinjaAbi on ao3) drew [this](http://between2devils.tumblr.com/post/72687503648) perfect thing and i died because abi's grantaire is my fave in the world 
> 
> bee (lycaeas) drew [this](http://between2devils.tumblr.com/post/73086421637) FANTASTIC FEUILLY I AM SWOON because my headcanon feuilly is super dear to me oh lord
> 
> [here](http://between2devils.tumblr.com/post/72716556314) is a post about grantaire's tattoos and [here](http://between2devils.tumblr.com/tagged/junkies+au) is my junkies au tag for this fic where i put everything and answer questions and post headcanons etc
> 
> AND SUPER EXCITING STUFF a little while ago sara asked me if she could illustrate this fic so she's started a comic over on [this blog](http://tooafraidtoloveyoucomic.tumblr.com) which is just. bloody hell so many cool things happening i am a puddle


	14. shirt and tie

“If you don’t wear it, I’m going to knock you out and dress you myself and that won’t be fun for any of us because I’ll make Combeferre help!” 

Enjolras scowls at Courfeyrac and resents the day he ever decided that this was the person he thought would make a great best friend. Oh the folly of the young. 

“I’m not wearing it – I hated that place and I still do and I don’t want to be associated with it.”

“The theme is school disco so just wear your bloody school blazer!” Courfeyrac throws his arms in the air and is almost vibrating with frustration. “It’s not like I’m asking you to parade around Parliament Square in a sparkly jockstrap.” 

Enjolras looks to Combeferre for assistance, positive that there’s probably a wild look in his eyes as he realises that Courfeyrac will file that idea away for another time. Combeferre, however, is absolutely no help at all, simply shrugging and looking a little amused at the whole thing. 

“It could be quite fun. Courfeyrac is right; this is hardly the worst thing he’s ever asked you to do. It’s just a blazer and tie.” 

“Where did you get my school blazer from?” Enjolras asks suspiciously, to which Courfeyrac looks very smug indeed. 

“I asked your mum and she was very co-operative – she even kept all your badges and everything. She made me lunch too, and honestly you should pay her a visit more often.”

Enjolras feels a pang of guilt at that because he knows he should visit more often, or at least call more often. He’s very good at prioritising things that _need_ to be done and forgetting the things that he _should_ do, especially when he’s trying to distance himself from that life. Just being in that house makes him feel itchy all over, surrounding by lavish furnishings and extravagance for the sake of it. Then there’s the school; bringing up an entire generation to be just like his parents, drumming it into the heads of teenage boys that money and stature is success, and envisioning anything less than that in your future makes you either lazy or naïve. He doesn’t want that anymore, he wants to be as far away from it as possible but his family – well, only his mother really – makes that a little bit tricky. 

Combeferre, belatedly coming to Enjolras’ rescue, looks up from his book and says: “Courfeyrac, didn’t you burn your blazer on the last day of school? I don’t think I imagined the havoc you caused outside the main gates.” 

Courfeyrac has the decency to look sheepish, but the smugness still shines through underneath until he gives up and breaks into another grin. “Oh god, that was fucking brilliant, wasn’t it? The headmaster looked like he shat himself and I thought he was going to drag me back in. Ah yes, good times, chaps.” He looks off into the distance and brings his fist to his chest, pretending to bite back tears of nostalgia as Enjolras makes a face at Combeferre. “But er, my mum had a spare that she said was for inevitable emergencies. Apparently I can’t be trusted – _so_ rude.” 

“You’ve been encouraging him, haven’t you?” Enjolras asks Combeferre, and he’s met with the most dramatic eye roll he’s ever seen. 

“You’re being ridiculous.” 

“You’re _being_ a party pooper!” Courfeyrac balls up Enjolras blazer and lobs it at him with a look of pure determination. “Stop pooping on our party!” 

“I’m not pooping on anyone’s party – why do you _always_ say that – I’m not some awful monster constantly trying to suck the fun out of everything!” 

Combeferre goes from looking exasperated to mildly worried and he takes a step between Enjolras and Courfeyrac and crosses his arms. “Stop _bickering_ , Christ almighty. Courfeyrac, you’re being an arse and that was mean. Enjolras, you’re also being an arse and if you’d be so kind as to remove the stick that had taken up residence in your backside, that would be lovely.” 

“He’s going to make us hug it out,” Courfeyrac says flatly, and Combeferre doesn’t say anything but he’s still standing there looking disappointed. 

“Maybe if we shake hands on it he’ll let it go.” 

Courfeyrac extends his arm and they grasp each other in a firm handshake that curves around Combeferre, who doesn’t look appeased at all. “Nice try,” he says lightly before he steps back. “Now hug it out before I bludgeon you both.” 

Enjolras and Courfeyrac groan in unison but don’t have to be told twice – they’ve refused to do this before and it hadn’t ended nicely, there was a lot of ear pinching and scrabbling and being locked in a broom cupboard together – and it does feel nice to have Courfeyrac’s arms around him and his hair tickling his nostrils. 

“All right, I’ll wear the bloody blazer.” 

“Fucking yes!” Squeals Courfeyrac, and he leaps into Enjolras’ arms and gives him zero time to do anything but cling onto him. “Oh god it’ll be like old times, the classic trinity back again—” 

“Please don’t start singing,” Enjolras pleads, but Courfeyrac already has that tell-tale look on his face that means he’s going to do the opposite of what Enjolras has just said. 

“ _The boys are back in town, the boys are back in town!_ ”

Enjolras cannot be blamed for dropping Courfeyrac before he can get another line in, and he grabs his blazer and tie while Courfeyrac is on the ground rubbing the spot when he fell on his bum – still singing, of course – and sprints upstairs before he can get roped into a three-part harmony.

  

The three of them go on a trip to Tesco in the early evening, scouring the wine aisle for the very cheapest thing they can get. They are terrible at pretending to be responsible adults – Enjolras and Courfeyrac especially – and even though Combeferre is mostly their voice of reason, he gets convinced far too easily when Enjolras and Courfeyrac start climbing him like puppies.

“What about this?”

Courfeyrac peers at the label on the bottle of rosé that Enjolras is holding up, then back at the shelf to find where it came from. “We literally cannot even afford that. We can’t afford Tesco’s own brand wine. It’s in a plastic bottle, it’s not even glass.” 

“ _Maybe_ , if you stopped buying expensive cereal we could buy better wine,” Combeferre says dryly, taking the bottle from Enjolras’ hand and putting it back on the shelf. 

“But Lucky Charms are my life-blood, I need them!” Courfeyrac whines, then he rounds on Combeferre with narrowed eyes and an accusing finger. “Coming from you with your bloody Dorset muesli – that shit costs an arm and a leg _and_ it’s got just as much sugar!” 

“Why do we have so many friends?” Enjolras sighs, squinting at all the labels stuck to the shelves. “Why can’t they bring _us_ wine, instead of drinking us out of house and home for once.” 

“Because Bossuet is dirt broke, Joly spends half of his money paying for Bossuet, Eponine is also dirt broke, and the others are just terrible people,” Courfeyrac says with a sulk, counting them all off on his fingers. 

“They’re not that bad – Feuilly and Grantaire always bring drinks. Remember that time Bahorel brought a massive bottle of tequila?” 

Enjolras turns to stare at Combeferre, dead-eyed and done with this pathetic shopping trip. “He also tried to drink the entire thing by himself.”

“Okay, that is a fair point. But he had good intentions and Courfeyrac and Grantaire were egging him on.”

Courfeyrac looks proud of himself as he drapes his arms over Combeferre and Enjolras’ shoulders, steering them back towards the exit. “We’ll send a group message out – red alert. Either they all bring a box of wine or our friendship is revoked.” 

\----

Enjolras is in the middle of a shower when Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta show up. He can hear them downstairs: Musichetta’s laugh and Courfeyrac’s loud voice above the cheesy playlist that Courfeyrac had insisted on making when they got back from the supermarket. Enjolras throws his clothes on without looking too hard at himself in mirror, hating the way the blazer sits on his shoulders and how the light bounces off the shiny badges. He hates the tie most, he always has, and he rolls his eyes even as he puts it on. 

He’s barely stepped into the living room when Musichetta thrusts a drink at him, an easy smile gracing her lips and her usually wild hair split into pigtails secured by brightly coloured bobbles. She’s wearing a pinafore dress over a white shirt, complete with shiny black brogues and little cotton socks with white frills around the edge. Enjolras has flashbacks to primary school, remembering Marie shoving one of those socks in his face after he and Combeferre had snuck into her room to play after school. 

“Oh my god, you’re all matching. That’s the most adorable thing ever!” Musichetta coos, bouncing on the spot as she looks between Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre. 

“I’m not adorable,” Enjolras grumbles, and he flops back onto the sofa while sipping at his wine.

“You sort of are. You’re like an angry kitten.”

Enjolras turns to give Joly a withering look, but he looks so sheepish and amused that Enjolras can’t bear to do it. He settles with glaring at Musichetta instead, pretending to ignore her when she sits down next to him and starts asking how he’s been and whether he’s tested out Grantaire’s mattress yet. 

Eponine shows up a little while later, looking less than pleased to be back in an uncomfortable white shirt and ballet flats. She’s got her tie in a fat knot to make it short, just like Enjolras remembers all the kids from the local high school doing, but she’s wearing a straw hat that’s usually a trademark of the girls at private primary schools. It’s an odd mix, and Enjolras vaguely recalls Eponine once mentioning her stint at a posh school in Hertfordshire before she came to London, but she’s never been keen to talk about it so Enjolras doesn’t ask. 

She has Bahorel and Feuilly in tow behind her, and Courfeyrac starts cheering in delight when he sees a box of wine being dutifully carried on each of Bahorel’s shoulders. He runs right up to all three of them and kisses them each on both cheeks before saying, “I take it back; you’re the best friends ever! You can all stay!” 

 

Jehan comes tumbling in with an open bottle of wine in hand some time later, Cosette with him, tripping over his untied doc martens with white socks already slipping down his calves to pool at his ankles sloppily, and Courfeyrac does a double take and stops speaking mid-sentence.

Jehan is wearing a kilt in bottle green tartan that reaches just below his knees and a navy v-neck made of typical scratchy school wool, coming up too big on him so that it hangs off his collarbones. Courfeyrac seems to take a moment to catalogue everything, before his eyes settle on Jehan’s hair and squirmy half-smile. 

“Oh my god,” Courfeyrac says, after looking like a fish out of water for a good minute. “Oh my god, are you even real?”

Jehan winds his legs around one another and pulls the sleeves of his jumper over his hands as he tries not to look at anyone in particular. “Do you hate it? Just tell me if you do – I made Grantaire do it.” 

“Christ, no, I love it. It’s so, I don’t even know, it’s just so you.” Courfeyrac grins and crosses the room to twist his fingers in Jehan’s hair. 

Jehan’s cheeks colour and he stares down at his scuffed up shoes, but there’s a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth. “Are you just saying that?” 

Courfeyrac’s smile grows impossibly wider and he tips Jehan’s chin up between his thumb and forefinger, tugging on the hem of his jumper with his other hand. “Jean Prouvaire, I have a right mind to shag you right this very second.” 

Jehan goes from pink to scarlet at that, and the room is a mixture of choking on drinks and groans with accompanying eye rolls. Cosette, who is lingering in the doorway of the living room with Combeferre, matches Jehan from the waist down and is watching with complete glee.

“Oh god, don’t ever say shag again, it’s so cringe-worthy I could die,” complains Jehan, but he can’t be that fussed because he wraps his arms around Courfeyrac’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss. 

“And that’s more than enough teeth-rotting cuteness than I can handle for one night,” Eponine mutters loudly, downing the rest of her drink with a sour face.

Enjolras seconds that and leaves Jehan and Courfeyrac to it, finding an empty chair between Feuilly and Bossuet at the kitchen table. By some glorious miracle their wine alert hasn’t gone unnoticed and the house is wonderfully well stocked. But as if all the boxed wine wasn’t bad enough, they’re drinking out of mugs and plastic tumblers because nobody has bothered to do any washing up. In fact, Enjolras is pretty sure that Cosette is currently drinking out of an empty jam jar. 

“I thought growing up would be much different,” sighs Enjolras, propping his chin up on his hands with his elbows on the table. 

Feuilly smiles wryly and claps him on the back. “What, you didn’t imagine this? Jehan and Cosette doing the can-can in your living room while Combeferre makes gooey eyes at Eponine over wine that tastes like toilet water?” 

“I definitely had higher hopes.” 

“You were kidding yourself.” Feuilly punches him lightly in the shoulder and grins over the brim of his mug. 

The thing is, Enjolras’ life has gone in the complete opposite direction he thought it would, but he wouldn’t change any of it, not a single decision that has led him to this house and these friends. It’s going to be a mushy night – Enjolras can tell already – and there is a very high chance that he will have professed his love to at least one person by the end of the night. 

He really hopes it’s not Grantaire; that would be a mess that he doesn’t want to make. It might be Feuilly. It will probably be Feuilly. 

 

An hour later and Bahorel has extracted a bag of red wine from its box and is quite literally pouring it down his throat, while Jehan stays true to his word and puts together an impromptu Spice Girls tribute act. Enjolras stands atop the coffee table with wine in hand and is striking dramatic poses a la Victoria Beckham, and Musichetta has hitched her shirt up and tied it off into a crop top, living up to her part as Scary Spice when she rattles off her solo flawlessly and plants a kiss on everyone in the room at some point. Jehan is Baby Spice as the youngest of the group and Cosette has put his hair up in pigtails. She’d also attempted a ponytail at the top of Courfeyrac’s head after he had _insisted_ that he could still do a backflip while drunk, so _had_ to be Sporty Spice (which no, he could not). Then there’s Feuilly, who was more than reluctant about being forced into being Ginger Spice, but is now prancing around the room with a bent cigarette between his lips and his wine spilling all over the floor as he dances with Jehan.

It’s nothing short of a circus, and when Grantaire and Marius come in out of seemingly nowhere, Enjolras nearly falls off the coffee table and is caught by a conveniently nearby Feuilly. Grantaire starts laughing instantly, the sound erupting right down from his belly as he doubles over and takes it all in. Enjolras’ face goes hot, especially since Feuilly is holding him in his arms like they’re newlyweds and Grantaire is actually pointing. Enjolras scrambles to his feet and scurries off to the kitchen, mumbling some nonsense about getting more wine out, but really he’s just hiding. 

In fact, his place behind the counter gives him the perfect place to watch Grantaire greeting everyone, and more importantly, a full view of what Grantaire is wearing. And it’s tragic, really, that Enjolras has resorted to hiding in his own kitchen just so that he can ogle Grantaire without anyone noticing. He was a respectable, driven, intelligent student once – and now his brain has been reduced to gloop because of Grantaire and his bouncy dark curls and his blue eyes and semi-formal attire. 

That last part is definitely the worst. Enjolras is in pain, real honest-to-god agony because Grantaire is wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top button undone, along with his ‘fancy’ skinny jeans (the ones that aren’t ripped at the knee and fraying) and a green tie. Grantaire probably would have been Enjolras’ wet dream in school as well, and Enjolras can just imagine it. Grantaire would have been impossibly smart and rebellious for the sake of it, happily flitting between social circles just like Courfeyrac could, and he probably wore those doc martens with his uniform too. 

God, Enjolras is having a meltdown and all Grantaire can do is pinch Eponine’s wine and sling his grey blazer jacket over the back of the sofa. It looks expensive and fitted so it’s probably one of Marius’, but he’s too busy being fawned over by Courfeyrac and Cosette at the same time to even notice.

“Did I miss anything?” 

Grantaire has managed to sneak up behind Enjolras and makes him jump with a fright, his eyes glittering when Enjolras turns around with his cheeks still a faint pink colour. 

“Only Courfeyrac announcing to the room how he’d like to do inappropriate things to Jehan. And he tried to do a backflip off the sofa but he stacked it.” 

Grantaire barks out a laugh, as if this is the best news he’s heard in hours, and tugs at his collar. “Yeah well thank god for the little show you were putting on – gave me a distraction from how incredibly weird I feel in this.”

“You look good,” Enjolras says without thinking, because it’s been circling around his mind on repeat and apparently his brain-to-mouth filter has already conked out. Grantaire’s confused smile is worth it though, especially when he covers his face with one hand and peeks through his fingers.

“I am twenty-two years old; dressing like a school student feels really sort of disturbing. Why are we doing this and _why_ do you look so fucking gorgeous?” 

Enjolras narrows his eyes at Grantaire. “Are you making fun of me?” 

“Oh my god, you don’t even realise. That’s so much worse.” Grantaire makes a sound like _he’s_ in physical pain, before he reaches for the lapel of Enjolras’ blazer and glances over all the badges. “You’re even more of a toff than I thought. Honestly, why do you look so sinfully attractive right now – you can’t even put a bloody tie on properly!” 

“Shut up,” Enjolras mutters, batting Grantaire’s hand away. He’s never been good with ties. He at least attempts to make an effort at work, but there’s something about that stupid striped school tie that makes him knot it as lazily as possible – as if he’s still waiting for every single member of staff to scold him. 

Grantaire dodges Enjolras’ hand and wraps the tie around his fingers, his eyes dropping to Enjolras’ mouth before he looks up, and there’s something dark about his expression that has Enjolras’ pulse racing. “I’m going to make you dance tonight,” Grantaire says in a low voice, and Enjolras has to make a conscious effort to breathe. 

“You won’t. We tried that already.” 

Grantaire’s lips curve upwards and he drops Enjolras’ tie, something about him seeming to flip like a switch. The allure that had been radiating from Grantaire a moment ago has been replaced by a playfulness that Enjolras is more familiar with, but the charge left behind can’t fizzle out so quickly. 

“Well considering you’ve already put on one show tonight, I’m sure it won’t be that hard,” teases Grantaire, and he pats Enjolras’ cheek before nicking his glass of wine to go bouncing off to sit in Joly’s lap. 

 

When they get out from the tube station it’s chucking it down with rain, but most of them are already too happily drunk to care much. Instead, they just huddle into each other and rush down the streets, some of them pulling their jackets over their heads whilst Eponine and Cosette don matching straw hats and lace-up boots. They have to queue outside of the club for a while once they get there and Enjolras ends up shivering enough for Bahorel to pull him into his side and engulf him, and Enjolras is eternally grateful that the man is a walking furnace. 

 It’s a madhouse inside, with people spilling out every which way, all dressed up in white shirts and fake glasses and striped ties. Enjolras is glad they drank so much before they came out because the bar is almost completely hidden by a tightly packed crowd. Enjolras has tried not to overdo it – he’d stuck to just wine and didn’t mix his drinks, not going as quickly as the others in case he has another mortifying incident. 

“Oh my god, I had my first kiss to this song!” Courfeyrac says excitably, _C’est La Vie_ playing loudly and everyone around them singing along out of tune. 

Courfeyrac drags Jehan and Marius down to the dance floor, quickly followed by Eponine and Cosette who go laughing after them. 

“This song has always been terrible,” Enjolras says with a screwed up face. Joly and Bossuet’s heads whip around in unison to stare open mouthed at him, and Musichetta shakes her head at Enjolras and wraps her arms around Joly and Bossuet. 

“You’re a heathen,” says Joly, pointing a finger at Enjolras. 

“It’s stupid!” 

Bahorel has procured a drink from somewhere and walks straight through the conversation, shouting, “I fucking love B*witched!” as he disappears into main crowd looking more pumped than anyone else in the entire building. 

“So I’m guessing this isn’t the song.” 

Enjolras turns to Grantaire and finds him looking back at him in amusement. His hair is damp from the rain and water droplets are still clinging to the ends of his curls, his eyelashes clumped together and nose pink from the cold. 

“What?” 

Grantaire sidles up to him until their sides are touching. “The one that I’m going to get you dance to, remember?” 

Enjolras shoves him away lightly and savours the delighted sound that Grantaire makes when he grabs onto Enjolras’ blazer and tries get his balance back. “I’m going to win and you’re going to love it,” Grantaire sing-songs, standing on his toes to bring his face right up to Enjolras’ until their noses bump. 

“And _that’s_ my cue to leave.” Feuilly catches Combeferre’s attention and go they off in the same direction as Bahorel, both carrying themselves with the kind of grace that should not belong to any drunk person ever. 

“Even if you don’t dance, you’re coming down here!” Musichetta physically pushes Enjolras forwards to the edge of the steps leading down to the dance floor, and then gives him a not so gentle nudge until he goes down. 

Grantaire takes it upon himself to help too, hopping in front of Enjolras to grab his blazer again and pull him down into the middle of the mayhem. Enjolras can’t see any of the others, his head spinning as he finds his bearings and blinks his eyes into focus, and Joly is already doing something that looks like the twist with Bossuet clumsily mirroring him.

“I hate you,” Enjolras gripes, but Grantaire just grins and gives his tie a tug – and Enjolras had almost forgotten how much of a handsy drunk Grantaire is. 

“As if that would stop me,” he says with an eye roll before grabbing Enjolras’ hands and slotting their fingers together. 

Enjolras lets Grantaire tug at his arms and attempt to get him moving, thinking back to that night at the club in Camden when it was Marius’ birthday and Grantaire had been looking at him like there was nobody he’d rather be with for a few minutes, kicking his shins and singing along to the music. In fact, the music here isn’t all that different anyway – it’s mostly just the school uniforms and an obvious lack of male dancers in matching animal print crop tops and thongs. 

“Loosen up, you plonker!” Grantaire shouts, dropping one of Enjolras’ hands so he can pull on his belt loop and try to forcibly move Enjolras’ hips. Enjolras’ head feels quite fuzzy, the music pounding in his ears and vibrating through his chest, Grantaire’s finger catching on his stomach when he slips it out of the loop again. 

The song changes to something by the Sugarbabes that Enjolras doesn’t remember the name of but somehow still knows all the words to, and Grantaire joins him between wheezes of laughter, both of their hands joined again as Grantaire inches closer to him. 

Enjolras feels a hard smack to his bum and he stares wide-eyed at Grantaire for a second before turning around. Musichetta, looking very pleased with herself, says, “Don’t put that thing to waste!” 

Enjolras doesn’t have the chance to respond, Joly dragging her and Bossuet further into the crowd, so he just lets his forehead drop onto Grantaire’s shoulder in case anybody can see his pink cheeks in the dark. “She’s right – wise woman,” Grantaire says gravely by his ear, and Enjolras tries not to think about how close Grantaire’s lips are. “You’re better at this when you’re drunk.”

Enjolras snorts and lifts his face away from Grantaire’s shoulder. He’s going to need another drink soon if Grantaire keeps edging into his space like that, his arms coming up around Enjolras’ neck and his leg slotting between Enjolras’ just a little bit. Enjolras wants to kiss him a lot right now, wants to wipe the smug grin off his face and find out whether Grantaire’s mouth will taste like rain and wine and cigarettes combined. 

The strobe light flashes over their faces and lights them up for half a second at a time, and Enjolras is seriously thinking about kissing Grantaire right now in the middle of this crowd when he gets a good look at his eyes. The dark shadows underneath are still just as prominent as this afternoon, but his pupils are terrifyingly black – big, so big that they swallow up nearly all of the blue that Enjolras loves so much – and the whites are bloodshot. 

Enjolras has never been good at hiding his emotions on his face – it’s part of how people know he’s so honestly passionate about everything he speaks about – and he knows that Grantaire sees something. Enjolras can’t help it, but he pictures Grantaire when he’d first opened his eyes in Montparnasse’s flat, and he’s not so sure that Grantaire should be getting involved with him at all – not when Grantaire is so volatile and Enjolras is hiding so much from him. 

Grantaire’s smile disappears. 

“You keep giving me this weird look.” 

“No I’m not.” It’s a terrible lie – Enjolras knows it is – and it’s only made worse but how loudly he has to speak. 

“You are. Like I’m broken and you’re waiting for me to fuck up.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t. I didn’t tell you any of those things so you could treat me like a fucking grenade!” Grantaire’s arms come swiftly away from Enjolras’ neck and he keeps them tensed by his sides. There’s a moment where Enjolras thinks Grantaire is about to hit him, his hands clenched into fists and his mouth set in a tight line, but instead he makes to move away. 

Enjolras grabs Grantaire’s arm to keep him from running off into the throng of people. “That’s not what I’m trying to do. I’m just—” He doesn’t know how to say it, how to put into words the coil that’s been twisting tighter and tighter in his stomach ever since Grantaire’s birthday. “I want to help you and I feel like I can’t do anything.” 

Grantaire’s smile is not a nice one. It’s barbed and bitter and makes Enjolras blood run cold as it stretches into a grimace. “You can’t fix me. Even you, oh mighty one.” 

Enjolras opens his mouth to gripe at Grantaire for calling him that, for assuming that Enjolras is arrogant enough to think that, but a guitar riff fills the club and suddenly everyone is thrashing to another song that Enjolras doesn’t remember the name of. Someone’s elbow smacks into the small of his back and sends him flying into Grantaire’s chest, who then stumbles on his feet and goes knocking into the man behind him. 

They keep getting shoved around until the chorus kicks in, and then they’re being pushed together from all directions, other people squeezing against them and pogoing up and down. Grantaire gets trapped against Enjolras’ chest, his arms stuck between them awkwardly before he manages to wriggle them away. Grantaire looks up with a gentler expression when Enjolras puts a hand on his waist to keep him from being washed away into the rest of the crowd. The chorus ends and the havoc calms down again, gives them space to breathe. Grantaire could step back out of Enjolras’ light touch but he doesn’t, just shuffles a little closer and tips his face up towards Enjolras. 

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” says Grantaire, quiet as he can while still being heard over the music. He walks two fingers up Enjolras’ arm and still doesn’t look away or pull back, his eyes unblinking and focusing hard on Enjolras’ as his fingertips stumble across bare skin. 

Grantaire brushes the underside of Enjolras’ jaw softly then drags one finger down his neck until it dips into the hollow of his throat, slides it along the bump of his collarbone inside of his shirt before pressing in right behind the bone. Enjolras’ breath hitches, and he knows if he looks at Grantaire right now he’s going to be absolutely gone. 

Grantaire presses closer still and nudges his nose against Enjolras’ chin until Enjolras angles his head up a little, Grantaire’s lips pressing ever so lightly against his throat for only a second. “Can I kiss you? I really want you to kiss me,” Grantaire murmurs, his blunt nails carving grooves into the skin behind Enjolras’ collarbone.  

Enjolras relents – because really, he’s only human – and looks down at Grantaire. How he manages to look like pure sin on demand like that, Enjolras will never know, but he can’t say no to Grantaire with heavy eyelids and teeth sinking into his bottom lip nervously. Enjolras puts both hands on Grantaire’s hips and kisses him before he can talk himself out of it, the rough press of Grantaire’s mouth instantly making his head start spinning all over again.

Grantaire clings onto Enjolras with a firm grip, his arms snaked around his neck again so that their bodies are aligned from shoulder to hip, Grantaire’s tongue sweeping across Enjolras’ lower lip before he licks inside, his fingers digging into the back of Enjolras’ neck. Enjolras hauls Grantaire even closer and tamps down a shiver at the press of his cold skin, his shirt soggy and clinging to his chest because he’d forgotten Marius’ jacket in the house. 

Enjolras can feel himself cracking, pain and confusion and pure worry still pumping through his heart steadily, but a searing heat that shoots up his spine and coils in his bones counteracts it, even while Grantaire is leeching warmth from him and trying to get so close that Enjolras thinks Grantaire will climb inside his ribcage. So he swallows the dull ache concern, forces it away and lets himself get lost in Grantaire’s mouth and his intoxicating kisses and fingers tugging at his hair. 

It’s so easy to forget everything that’s not okay when Grantaire is whispering obscene things against his mouth, things that Enjolras doesn’t even hear because Grantaire has got a hand fisted around his tie and is pulling. 

“I _really_ like this, did I tell you that?” Grantaire says, and all Enjolras can think about is the dark glint in his eyes and his flushed cheeks and his damp shirt.

It seems inevitable, really, that they end up pushing through hoards of people to fight their way to the bathroom, lacking all subtlety when they pile into a tiny cubicle and fumble with the lock on the door in the tight space. Grantaire is all devilish smiles and wandering hands as he crowds Enjolras up against one wall, and Enjolras is so gone and so done for and there’s no way he can even bring himself to care now. 

Grantaire kisses him hard and makes Enjolras feel like they’re standing on a spinning top. He’s completely dazed and on fire and his skin prickles hotly with every touch of Grantaire’s hands, and then there are lips on his neck and Grantaire still has a hold of his tie and it’s almost too much. Enjolras coaxes Grantaire back into another kiss and he feels lost in it, and he drags Grantaire in by the belt buckle just to anchor himself, and he holds Grantaire there firmly. 

Grantaire sucks on Enjolras’ tongue and it sends something shooting through Enjolras, the tips of his fingers tingling and heat pooling in the pit of his stomach. He really wants his hands on Grantaire; to have nothing but the feeling of skin-on-skin, and a cramped bathroom stall with a sticky floor isn’t the best place for it.  

“Let’s leave,” Enjolras says thickly, his hand still splayed across the small of Grantaire’s back. “Let’s get out of here.” 

Grantaire goes blank for second but then he suddenly looks like he’s seen the face of god – something that Enjolras is _not_ going to think about now – and he forces himself into nodding. “Yeah – shit _yes_ , let’s go. Why are we still here?” 

Enjolras huffs out a laugh and can’t stop himself from kissing Grantaire lightly again, but before he knows it Grantaire is wriggling out of his grip and trying to get the door open behind his back. 

“Let’s _go_ , come on,” Grantaire whines breathily, and Enjolras has to laugh again, watching Grantaire blindly reach behind him for the lock, hands scrabbling because he won’t just turn around. 

“Okay, we’re going.” 

Enjolras squeezes his arm past Grantaire and slides the lock back, getting the door open just enough for Grantaire to squeeze out before yanking him along. They ignore the looks they get from the two other people in the bathroom raising eyebrows at them under the fluorescent lighting as they fall out of a tiny stall with blotchy necks and swollen mouths. 

Grantaire grabs Enjolras’ hand and leads him out of the bathroom, weaves them around groups of people and heads straight for the stairs that lead out onto the street. They pass through a cloud of cigarette smoke when they get outside, a handful of people milling around and chatting in the cold with their arms pulled tightly around themselves. Enjolras scans a few faces, half expecting to see Feuilly and Eponine among them, but he lets himself be tugged along behind Grantaire until they come to a stop at the end of the road. 

“I have no idea where we’re going.” 

If Enjolras weren’t half hard and very much enamoured by Grantaire’s bedraggled appearance right now he would probably strangle him. “Bus – we need a bus. What number goes home?” 

Grantaire looks at Enjolras frantically before he flaps his arms in the air, and Enjolras has to hold him still just so he can kiss him again, much too fond of Grantaire being ridiculous to keep it in. Grantaire lets him, standing still with his arms pinned to his sides and a smile curving his mouth. 

They break apart so that Grantaire can look up the buses on his phone and they find a stop that’s meant to be five minutes away. They alternate between rushed walking and goofy stumbling where Grantaire keeps crossing his legs over in front of Enjolras’ to get them both tangled up, and they piss about for so long that they have to sprint to actually catch the bus when they get within sight of the stop. 

Enjolras digs his oyster card out of his wallet and barely gets to swipe it before Grantaire drags him to the back of the near-empty bus, both of them still out of breath from their impromptu run. The bus is flooded with too-bright lights and smells like feet and McDonalds, but as far as night buses go it could be much worse. As it is, there are only three other people on the bottom deck: all of them drunk and paying absolutely no attention to Enjolras and Grantaire. 

Grantaire slides into the second last row so they can slouch down and be less noticeable, Enjolras taking the seat next to him and slinging one arm around the back of Grantaire’s seat. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, just fixes Enjolras with one of those looks that Enjolras thinks maybe he’s supposed to understand by now but really doesn’t.

“Thank god you’re here.”

Grantaire lets himself settle back against Enjolras’ arm and hooks his foot around Enjolras’ ankle. “Why?”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire very seriously while trying to subtly shuffle closer to him. “I have no idea where we are right now. Didn’t even pay attention to what station we got off at.” 

Grantaire slaps Enjolras’ thigh with a shocked laugh, looking up at the ceiling as he shakes his head in disbelief. He leaves his hand there, fingers drumming a tune on Enjolras’ trousers while Grantaire’s leg furthest from Enjolras bobs up and down. “You’re an idiot and I hate you.”

Grantaire turns to grin at him fondly, his eyes crinkling at the edges with it, and Enjolras laughs and beams back at him. “What did I do?”

“It’s half an hour until we get home and _you_ ,” Grantaire pokes Enjolras square in the chest, “are a menace.”

“Sorry,” Enjolras mumbles half heartedly, already leaning down to brush his nose against Grantaire’s jaw. 

Grantaire’s foot slides up Enjolras’ calf a little as he turns his face, keeping a breath’s distance between his and Enjolras’ mouths as he whispers, “No you’re not.”

There’s warmth curling in the pit of Enjolras’ stomach again, heating him up from the inside as he smiles back at Grantaire and focuses on all the points where their bodies are touching. “I’m really not.” 

Grantaire slides Enjolras’ tie between his fingers, gliding up the fabric until he reaches the knot and pulls Enjolras forward by it, closing that last bit of space so their lips connect again. Enjolras melts into it, feeling all his limbs relax into Grantaire’s touch when he skims one hand down Enjolras’ chest, squeezes his fingers into Enjolras’ thigh with the other. It’s an awkward angle – Grantaire twisted around and Enjolras’ neck aching already – but Enjolras really doesn’t want to stop, especially now that Grantaire seems intent on kissing him slowly, softer than he had in the bathroom. 

Enjolras makes a noise of frustration in the back of his throat, worsened only by the way Grantaire nips at his mouth and squeezes his thigh again, his hand travelling further up and _oh_. Enjolras absolutely does not think when he throws one leg over Grantaire and lifts himself to straddle his lap, just fills his ears with the surprised little sound that Grantaire yelps into his mouth, his hands automatically going to Enjolras’ hips. 

It should be cold in the bus and Enjolras’ hands should be absolutely frozen, what with the doors opening at every stop and sucking the warmth out, but he feels like he’s on fire, as if his bones are scorching and his insides are melting with every press of Grantaire’s lips and every slide of his tongue. Grantaire’s fingers are holding him so tightly, pressing into his sides with a force that’s the only thing keeping Enjolras grounded, and he really, _really_ hopes there are bruises to show for it.  

Enjolras thinks he might like his version of himself. The one who will tipsily climb into Grantaire’s lap on public transport and kiss the breath right out of his lungs, who rolls his hips forwards experimentally and makes Grantaire moan quietly into his mouth, who doesn’t care about anything right now but the hands on his body and the boy who’s just pulled away from him an inch.  

“This is bad, isn’t it?” Enjolras says breathlessly, but truth be told he really couldn’t care less. He just knows that is the sort of thing that shouldn’t happen on buses – that boys shouldn’t be trying to rub off on each other in the hard, ugly seats. “This is really inappropriate.” 

Grantaire trails his mouth across the underside of Enjolras’ jaw, presses a hot kiss just beneath his ear and tugs Enjolras closer. “It’s the night bus. Much worse things happen on these buses, honestly.”

Grantaire’s teeth graze across his neck before settling on a spot just above his shirt collar, sinking in hard enough that Enjolras’ hips jerk forwards suddenly. “This is the sort of thing Courf does. I feel like Courf.”

Grantaire licks over the bite he’s just left before pulling away to narrow his eyes at Enjolras. “I’m going to gag you if you keep talking about our friends while you’re fucking— _grinding_ on my lap.” 

Enjolras is a little bit smug. Just a little, because Grantaire does not look composed at all and Enjolras is _doing that_. “Is that a challenge?” He asks, pushing down again so that Grantaire has to muffle a groan in his chest. Enjolras isn’t really even sure why he said that – he’s probably delirious from sensory overload and an armful of handsy Grantaire – but he thinks that maybe he wouldn’t mind Grantaire’s fingers in his mouth, at least. 

“Hate you – _so_ much.”

Grantaire’s grumble is vaguely undermined by the fact that he says it against Enjolras’ neck, right in the midst of sucking a bruise at the base of his throat. Enjolras grins, unable to stop himself at all, because he’s giddy-drunk off cheap wine but he’s also completely lust-drunk off Grantaire’s perfect mouth and his perfect hands and his rough voice. 

“God, you’re bony,” Grantaire whines after a few minutes, shuffling Enjolras in his lap and wriggling about underneath him. “I can’t feel my arse. These seats are terrible.”

“I am not bony – _you’re_ bony,” Enjolras says, and he pinches Grantaire’s nipple with a glare, definitely not expecting it to make his entire body shake and his mouth fall open around a ragged sound. 

“Oh my _god_ —just—you.” Grantaire presses his lips together and slips a hand up the back of Enjolras’ shirt, tracing each knob and bump slowly. “Menace. Such a menace.”

They almost miss their stop because Enjolras is very distracted by the hand that has worked itself down the back of his trousers instead, and Grantaire is busy with Enjolras’ mouth and trying to stay quiet with every roll of Enjolras’ hips. Enjolras very barely registers the PA announcing the stop, but it filters in slowly until he realises that they need to get up _right now_ and off this bus. He has to extricate himself from Grantaire and drag him up by the elbow, practically leaping out the door as he thanks the driver.

They turn around in wobbly circles on the street corner, trying to work out which direction to turn, and Enjolras is dizzy and everything is a blur that even blinking can’t put into focus, but Grantaire is jumping onto his back and his laughter is hot on the back of his neck and everything feels so, so good.

“We’re going this way,” Grantaire announces, pointing to the left of where Enjolras is facing. “Come on, I’ve been wanting to get you out of that tie all night, hop to it.”

Enjolras chokes on his own spit and tightens his grip on Grantaire’s legs, heading off across the road as Grantaire threads his fingers through his hair, his body draped all over Enjolras’ back and his chin resting on his shoulder. It’s awful; Enjolras hates him so much. 

They’ve only been walking for five minutes when Grantaire tries to kiss Enjolras, his arms hooked around his neck as Enjolras cranes his neck to fit their lips together messily, and in the end he drops Grantaire on his feet so that he can kiss him properly. It’s lovely, even if his hands are numb and Grantaire’s fingers are like ice when they sneak up the hem of his shirt, and it’s even lovelier when Grantaire pushes him up against a lamppost and pins his wrists behind the pole. Enjolras feels like he’s going to explode out of his skin at any moment. 

“Whose house?” Enjolras mumbles, feeling utterly dazed as the cold metal cools his skin. 

Grantaire just smiles at him impishly and sticks a hand down Enjolras’ pocket, coming back up with his keys dangling off one finger. “Yours,” he says, tossing them up in the air before catching them in his palm. “Keep up, would you?” And then he’s off again, casting Enjolras this terrible look over his shoulder, with his bloody bedroom eyes and wicked grin. 

 

It’s a fumble to get the keys in the lock, and Grantaire makes it especially for hard for Enjolras to concentrate when he’s mouthing at his neck and _always_ sliding his hands up Enjolras’ shirt, tripping his fingers over bare skin like the thrill never wears off. As soon as Enjolras has yanked the key out again and is stumbling into the hallway, Grantare manages to twist them around and press Enjolras back against the door, his head thudding against the wood as his breath catches in his throat. 

“I’m a little bit drunk and a little bit high, so I think it’s okay to tell you this,” Grantaire says in a rush as he yanks Enjolras’ tie out of its knot and drops it on the ground. “But I’m probably going to wank over you in this outfit for days. Weeks, even.”

Enjolras almost chokes again, midway through shucking off his blazer in the tiny space Grantaire has left him. “God, please don’t. I’ve got much better suits.” 

Grantaire freezes in the middle of fumbling with the buttons on Enjolras’ shirt, looking a little wild with his red cheeks and kiss-bitten lips. “Fucking—I’m going to hold you to that—oh my god.”

Enjolras thinks he hears a button ping off his shirt and hit the wall, but honestly he couldn’t care less, not when Grantaire’s hands are _everywhere_. His skin feels like it’s on fire, Grantaire’s mouth trying to reach all the places that his hands can’t, and he drags his tongue over Enjolras nipple without any warning at all. Enjolras’ head hits the door again, a high-pitched sound leaving his mouth that he doesn’t even have time to be embarrassed about because there’s Grantaire and his _teeth_. 

Enjolras thinks he might pass out. It’s definitely a possibility. He’s not even sure he has any brain cells left when he reaches for Grantaire’s shirt, wrestling with buttons that are out to ruin his life and a tie that won’t co-operate, until he’s pushing the material past Grantaire’s elbows and forcing the whole thing off. Enjolras is even willing to reconsider his believe in a god when Grantaire plasters their skin together, not an inch of breathing space between them. Grantaire kisses him hard, and Enjolras’ lips are numb as he traces every shift of muscle on Grantaire’s back. 

“Can I suck you off?” Grantaire asks, still nipping at Enjolras’ mouth and rolling their hips together. 

Enjolras’s dick actually twitches at the mere suggestion and he nods weakly, already feeling dizzy with the idea of it. “Yeah, shit, okay.”

“I’m going to wreck you – that’s a promise – I’m going take you apart.” 

Enjolras can’t begin to describe how much he wants that so he kisses Grantaire desperately, unable to keep the edge out of it until Grantaire is reaching for his hand and leading them both stumbling into the living room. Enjolras just about finds the coordination to pull his shoes and socks off and nearly brains himself on the coffee table in the process. 

Grantaire pushes him back onto the sofa and crawls between his legs. They slow down a little, Grantaire covering Enjolras’ body as he kisses him thoroughly, hands sliding up his chest and dragging down again, his nails scratching pink tracks into Enjolras’ skin as he hums into his mouth. 

Enjolras thinks he likes Grantaire like this a lot, his movements slow and warm and radiating contentedness, so different to when he’s just sluggish from a high. Enjolras has never really noticed just how jittery and restless Grantaire is when he’s not drugged up to his eyeballs, but he notices now, obvious in the way he takes him time trailing kisses down Enjolras’ chest. 

“I’m good at this,” Grantaire says happily, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when he looks up from the bruise he’s just sucked over Enjolras’ ribcage. 

Enjolras doesn’t doubt that for a second, not when he feels five seconds away from going completely supernova. Grantaire gets Enjolras’ trousers undone and palms him through his underwear for a moment, looking down with the kind of intense reverence that makes Enjolras’s face go hot. Enjolras feels itchy with lust anyway, only relieved a little by Grantaire’s hand on him, and then it’s gone and he whimpers at the loss before he can stop himself. Grantaire shuffles down, sitting back on his calves so he can ease Enjolras trousers and underwear all the way off, tossing them somewhere over the back of the sofa arm. 

Enjolras might actually die. He’s about to tell Grantaire that it will be entirely his fault when the words get stuck in his throat, Grantaire pressing open-mouthed kisses to the inside of his thigh, his stubble scratching Enjolras’ skin. 

“You’re going to – ah, drag this out, aren’t you?” Enjolras says around an intake of breath, Grantaire’s mouth inching closer to his cock, painfully hard and going completely ignored. 

Grantaire looks up, his crooked smile a full-blown smirk now, before he drags his tongue up the underside of Enjolras’ cock and leaves Enjolras squirming with his eyes only half-open. Enjolras thinks he’s probably going to pay for the that comment, and _god_ – he definitely is because Grantaire is taking him into his mouth so painstakingly slow, and pulls off just as Enjolras processes the wet heat that he’s enveloped in. 

“Be good,” Grantaire says, his voice low and chiding, still hovering over Enjolras’ cock so that his breath makes Enjolras’ hips jerk towards him. 

He throws his arm across Enjolras’ hips, pinning him down against the leather of the sofa, material already clinging to sweat forming on his back, and Enjolras thinks he could get used to this. He wants lifetimes of Grantaire holding him down with a surprising amount of strength, of Grantaire looking down at him through dark lashes, hair mussed and falling into his eyes, Grantaire’s fingers around his cock and stroking him lightly. 

Grantaire stays true to his word and Enjolras feels wrecked all right. Grantaire dips down again and takes Enjolras into his mouth _so_ slowly, working his way down like he’s got eternity and a day to get Enjolras off. Which, _no_ , he does not. And Enjolras tries to say as much but it comes out as a reedy moan when Grantaire’s lips are around the base of his cock and he swallows around him, fingers pressing into Enjolras’ hips. 

Grantaire looks comfortable, which is ridiculous because he’s got Enjolras’ dick in his mouth and they’re both hanging off the sofa, no matter how big the thing is, but he looks comfortable and concentrated and Enjolras doesn’t want to miss a second. It’s a strain though, because Grantaire is good at so many things and apparently this is another one to add to the list, his tongue swirling around the head of Enjolras’ cock before he ducks down again, cheeks hollowed out and his lips wet and shiny as he sets up a deliciously messy rhythm. 

Enjolras is making a lot of noise, he is vaguely aware of that, knows that he’s filling the room with drawn-out groans and sounds he didn’t even know he could make until now. It’s nothing compared to when Grantaire moans around him though, the close vibrations having Enjolras shuddering and carding his fingers through Grantaire’s hair, and it’s so completely obscene the way Grantaire’s eyes say he’s smiling when he looks up. And Enjolras is caught up in watching himself disappear into Grantaire’s mouth, in the whimper Grantaire makes when his own dick presses against the sofa in just the right way, in the fan of his eyelashes as he ruins Enjolras. 

“Grantaire, _fuck_ , I’m gonna—” 

Enjolras’ toes are curled tightly and he feels like he’s about to burst at the seams, but Grantaire just redoubles his efforts and takes Enjolras all the way down again, his fingers still a bruising presence on Enjolras’ hips, and Enjolras comes harder than ever with a ragged cry that’s ripped from his chest.

Grantaire eases him through it, and Enjolras is still trembling when Grantaire pulls off and shuffles towards him again, hovering above him and looking incredibly pleased with himself. 

“Was that okay?” Grantaire asks, and if Enjolras believed he could actually move right now he would well and truly whack Grantaire.

He settles for drawing him in for a kiss, and it’s a much better idea because Enjolras can taste himself on Grantaire and it gives him an indescribable thrill that makes his dick twitch feebly. He feels himself drifting out of the orgasm fog as Grantaire lets them kiss languidly, indulging Enjolras with soft touches and a few bumps of their noses. Enjolras is just sliding his hand down Grantaire’s chest, reaching for his belt, when a phone sounds and makes them both jump. 

It’s Grantaire’s mobile and he fishes it out of his back pocket begrudgingly, and Enjolras tries not to sulk when he sits back on his knees to frown at a string of text alerts. Enjolras sees the moment something changes, a flash of something on his face before it smooths over into an apologetic glance in Enjolras’ direction.

“I need to go, I’m—” 

“What?” 

Enjolras doesn’t understand. He thinks he says that, but he’s not sure, and he stares at Grantaire with his eyebrows pulled together and tries to make sense of what’s happening. 

Grantaire winces, but he still extricates himself from the frame of Enjolras’ legs and gets up. “I’m sorry, I just, I really have to go.” 

“You haven’t even… like you’re going to leave without getting off?” 

“Don’t worry, it’s fine.” Grantaire takes a deep breath and tries to laugh, but it comes out dry and awkward and Enjolras _knows_ it’s not fine because he’s been hard since the moment they crammed inside that bathroom stall. “Listen I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” 

“Did I do something?” Enjolras asks in a small voice. He doesn’t know what could have made Grantaire so flighty all of a sudden when they’d been so good just now. For a moment Enjolras wonders if it’s something he said – since he has a habit of not noticing – but he’s barely been able to form sentences until now. 

“No!” Grantaire says quickly, finally looking at Enjolras properly. “It’s okay, really. Besides, this whole thing is about you, right?” He grins and Enjolras’ stomach is caught between fluttering and sinking. 

Right, this is meant to be for him. Grantaire is just being a good friend, a friend who likes to have sex and has an unclear interest in Enjolras. There are no feelings in this mess, apart from the ones that belong to Enjolras and are currently being squashed right under Grantaire’s boots. 

Enjolras musters up a small smile when Grantaire bends down to kiss his cheek quickly, but even that feels like an effort. He doesn’t move while Grantaire grabs Marius’ jacket from behind the sofa and leaves the room, just listens to him putting his shirt back on and answering a call before the front door slams shut and the house goes horribly silent.

He’s not upset. He’s just…a little deflated. That’s what Enjolras tells himself over and over again, wrapping himself up in the blanket from the sofa until he falls asleep to the sound of rain pattering on the windows and wind howling on the other side of the glass.


	15. the sleepover club

“I have a question.”

Enjolras is squashed up next to Courfeyrac in his bed, the dreary Sunday morning making Courfeyrac desperate for a cuddle and Enjolras cold and unnervingly lonely. Combeferre had been in the shower when Courfeyrac has sent snapchats to them both – a pouting face and puppy dog eyes begging them to keep him company. Combeferre had poked his head through Courfeyrac’s door a little while later, wet hair sticking up at odd angles and toothpaste on his chin, before he’d disappeared downstairs to make some breakfast first. 

“And what is your question?” Enjolras mumbles, his words somewhat muffled by Courfeyrac’s chest. The smell of bacon is faintly drifting up from the kitchen and both of their stomachs rumble at the thought. 

They’ve got an electric blanket on underneath the duvet whilst they watch Buffy reruns on telly, Courfeyrac’s arm wrapped around Enjolras’ shoulders and their legs all tangled up. If Courfeyrac doesn’t get on with it, Enjolras is in immediate danger of falling asleep. His eyelids keep drooping and he’s just so warm and cosy, his whole body turned in towards Courfeyrac who churns out heat like a furnace. 

“Are you ever going to tell me why we found you passed out on the sofa, stark naked and wrapped in a blanket, last weekend?” 

Enjolras can hear the frown in his voice and burrows deeper into Courfeyrac’s chest so that he doesn’t see the pink flush that has spread over Enjolras’ cheeks. “I don’t think I am, no.” 

“So we’re still not talking about it?” Courfeyrac asks, whining a little bit. 

“What are we still not talking about?” 

Enjolras is hit by the smell of hot food and tea, and he lifts his head just enough to see Combeferre kicking the door shut behind him, his hands full with a tray full of breakfast. There’s a pile of bacon and pancakes and chocolate digestives and three mugs of steaming tea, and Enjolras is reminded that they are truly blessed to have invested their friendship in Combeferre. It doesn’t, however, stop him from grumbling, “ _nothing_ ,” before he hides his face again. 

“Hm, we’ll see.” Combeferre passes the tray to Courfeyrac, who tries to dislodge Enjolras so that he can sit up against the pillows. Combeferre slides in on Courfeyrac’s other side and presses himself just as close, still wrapped up in his dressing gown but glasses now perched on his nose. He takes a mug and sighs happily to himself when he has a sip, steam fogging up his glasses. 

Enjolras reluctantly sits up as well, but it’s not so bad once Courfeyrac replaces the arm that had been wrapped around him before, squeezing Enjolras a little as he twists to kiss Combeferre on the cheek and thank him for breakfast. 

“I told you already,” Enjolras says, reaching for a strip of bacon while he waits for his tea to cool down, “I felt sick so I came home. I didn’t want to stay in my clothes because I was drunk and they were uncomfortable. I don’t know – I just fell asleep.”

“Were your pants uncomfortable too?” Combeferre asks over the brim of his mug, and they’re all so close that Enjolras feels when Courfeyrac kicks him in the shin, even though he’s holding back a laugh himself. 

“I want to laugh, really, I do. But I know for a fact that I’ve been found naked as a baby on multiple occasions while drunk.” Courfeyrac pats Enjolras’ knee over the duvet and gives him an amused smile, before ripping up half of a pancake to shove in his mouth. “Did anyone find out where Grantaire got to? He wouldn’t tell me.” Courfeyrac manages to pout even with his mouth full, maple syrup dribbling down his chin from where Combeferre has absolutely drowned the pancakes – just the way they like them. 

“Bahorel said he didn’t come home until the next day, but I don’t think he knows either.” 

“Well he _obviously_ got with someone. The little shit was covered in love bites, wasn’t he?” 

Enjolras’ gut twists and he grabs the other half of Courfeyrac’s pancake just so that he doesn’t have to say anything. Grantaire’s neck wasn’t nearly as bad as his was – he’d had to spend a good few days refraining from unbuttoning his shirt collar halfway through work, and even then there were still a couple marks that were too high up to hide. But nosey glances from strangers and colleagues were nowhere near as terrifying as the thought of his friends catching sight and questioning him, so Enjolras had spent half the week wearing a strategically placed scarf and claiming that he might be coming down with something. 

“Did you see him when you left?” 

Enjolras looks up, trying not to seem too startled, and sees Courfeyrac and Combeferre staring back at him curiously. “What?” Enjolras asks around a mouthful of food, and he reaches for his tea to wash it down before he chokes. 

“Did you see if Grantaire left with someone?” Courfeyrac presses, and when Enjolras swallows thickly Combeferre frowns and nudges Courfeyrac. 

“Maybe Enjolras doesn’t want to talk about that. I mean there’s that whole thing—” 

Courfeyrac cuts off Combeferre’s gentle tone with a roll of his eyes and an exasperated sigh. “That thing where they both want to shag each other’s brains out and are also disgustingly sweet for each other and won’t admit it?” 

“You know it’s not like that at all,” Enjolras mutters, chomping down on a slice of bacon with more vigour than is entirely necessary. 

“How could it _not_ be?” 

Enjolras glares up at Courfeyrac and swipes the pancake that he was about to reach for. “He doesn’t like me like that. I thought we’d already established this. Many times. Several of them in this bed.” 

“But I’ve _seen_ the way he looks at you – as if the sun shines out of your bloody arse!” 

“Courfeyrac, _stop_.” Enjolras fixes him with a particularly stern scowl, and he’s very grateful when Combeferre puts a hand on Courfeyrac’s arm. “I mean you came to Hoxton – you saw how well that went – so I really don’t know why we’re even talking about this.” 

“He just wants you to be happy, that’s all,” Combeferre says softly, and Enjolras can’t stand the way he looks at him, like he’s a helpless wounded animal. 

“I am happy.” Enjolras throws one leg across theirs and smiles at them both. “I’m having breakfast in bed with my best friends. I’m happy as anyone could be on a Sunday morning as bleak as this.” 

“Good. I love you, just so you know.” 

Enjolras pats Courfeyrac’s belly before picking up his tea, giving it a quick blow across the surface. “I do.” 

“Also Cosette’s dad is going away for Valentines Day - some weekend break with a lover that he thinks he’s being discreet about - and she’s doing a thing and you’re not allowed to not come.”

 

\----

 

“Bloody hell, this is proper lovely, isn’t it?” 

Enjolras has never been to Cosette’s house before, and he’s finding that he shares Feuilly sentiments exactly.

Lovely really is the only way to describe it – a semi-detached in the very nice part of Notting Hill, neatly trimmed ivy climbing up the brown brickwork and a pretty rose arch curving over the front gate. The window frames and exterior columns are coated in a layer of crisp white paint to match every house on the street and in the area, and the flowerbeds following the length of the iron fence out front make Enjolras think that this must be a dream in the summertime.

“It’s Cosette’s house – would you expect anything different?” Combeferre snorts, and he takes the gate off the latch and leads the way up the steps to the front door.

“Do you think she’d mind if started squatting here?” Bahorel mutters, trying to peer into the windows that all emit a warm orange glow in the darkening street.

Cosette herself is at the door a minute after they’ve rung the bell, and she flings herself out of the threshold to pull them all into a hug, only actually managing to get her arms around Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly.

“You’re late,” she admonishes once she’s pulled away, the sternness in her voice undone by the sweet smile stretching across his face. “Everyone else is already here.” 

The five of them follow Cosette inside, and Feuilly’s eyes widen at the size. It’s all bright white walls and open spaces and large windows with wooden shutters the size of a small person. Even Enjolras is a little bit speechless, not because of the size of the house—he’s grown up in places like this, places bigger than this even—but because it doesn’t feel like a big empty building, lonely and cold no matter how many people are perching on expensive sofas with G&Ts balanced on their laps. 

Cosette’s house is nothing like his parents’ house, actually. It looks lived in – it looks like a _home_. The hallways are lined with framed photographs of Cosette at various ages: a happy smile with teeth missing, her hair in messy plaits as she hangs upside down from monkey bars, a shot of what looks like her first day of secondary school, one of her and her father with their arms around each other. Enjolras knows that Cosette has moved around a lot, that this is the first time she’s stayed in one place this long since Valjean adopted her as a child, and it shows in all the things they’ve picked up along the way. There are chipped vases on aged mahogany dresses, an ornate coat stand that Cosette casually tosses all of their jackets and scarves onto, and little decorative souvenirs squashed onto any available surface without anything ever looking cluttered. 

“Jehan and I made cupcakes earlier. There’s red velvet or vanilla, but please just take a moment to admire our incredible baking talent before you shove it in your mouth in once go – that means you, Bahorel.” 

Bahorel makes a noise of protest but Cosette won’t have it, telling them to take their shoes off before she leads them into a drawing room while she’s still laughing. The shutters are half closed and a big fireplace is filling the room with the must of burning wood as it churns out heat, the lights dimmed low so that it emits a flickering glow and casts faint shadows over everyone’s faces. Joly, Bossuet, and Marius are spread across one sofa, sinking into the mismatch cushions with a plate of just crumbs precariously balanced between them. Marius and Jehan are on another sofa, pink icing all over Marius’ nose and cheek as Jehan tries to feed him a cupcake but keeps shaking with fits of giggles. 

“How’s my favourite little chimney and darling Bambi?” Courfeyrac beams, dashing over to squeeze in between Jehan and Marius and kiss them both on the cheek so that the two are stricken with deep blushes.

“Well it’s about time. We were beginning to think you lot had flaked out on this fabulous Valentines sleepover.” 

Enjolras’ attention is diverted to Grantaire, sprawled out on the rug in front of the fireplace like a cat lounging on the floor, a lazy grin curling his lips upwards as he cracks one eye open. Enjolras feels his heart catch in his throat for a second, looking down at Grantaire with his feet crossed at the ankle in Eponine’s lap. 

“Did you have a good cry about it?” Enjolras says, a little bit smug that he still somehow manages not to miss a beat. 

“I was completely numb with grief – five seconds away from throwing myself in the Thames and everything!” Grantaire wails dramatically, clutching a hand to his chest while Eponine just rolls her eyes. 

Cosette, who had disappeared into another room, re-enters with his arms full of another mountain of cupcakes and a couple of bottles of pink champagne. “Weren’t you just saying how there’d be more bubbly for you if they’d decided to cop out?” 

Grantaire scowls at her and folds his arms behind his head, eyes shutting again. “Absolutely not. Lies and slander – you should be ashamed.” 

“Oh so you _don’t_ want another cupcake then?” 

Enjolras is slightly relieved when Grantaire’s mouth twitches, fighting back a smile, before he beckons Cosette over with grabby hands. Grantaire looks so bony and knobbly lately, and Enjolras is sure that he’s not the only one worrying about it. It’s not like their first meeting, when Grantaire had looked lean and thin because of the oversized clothes that were always swamping him, it’s much worse now. He’s like a fragile beanpole with razor-sharp hipbones and scarily delicate wrists and ribs that push against his skin when he’s stretched across the floor like this. 

It’s terrible, so terrible, because Enjolras can count bones and see the tight pull of skin but he still feels itchy and hot at the sight of Grantaire in that baggy mesh vest, his beaten-up leather jacket acting as a pillow as he swipes his finger through the icing on a cupcake and sticks it in his mouth obscenely. 

Maybe Cosette sees it too though, because she leaves one plate of cupcakes right next to Grantaire before she sets the other one on the table, next to all the other baked goods that must have been in free-flow all day. 

“Isn’t Marius a bit put out that he doesn’t get to swoon over you all day, Cosette?” Courfeyrac asks, poking Marius in the cheek playfully. “You know, make a tit out of himself by taking you out for dinner and putting a promise ring in the bottom of your glass, and covering your bed in rose petals before a good old missionary-style romp in the sack.” 

Marius, who had only just managed to get his skin to return to its normal colour, blushes furiously and elbows Courfeyrac jerkily with wide eyes. 

Cosette sits down in a plush armchair, her legs thrown casually over the side as she fiddles with the cork of one of the bottles, and she gives Courfeyrac an amused look. Enjolras sits on the floor in front of her, the other three taking up the last sofa in the room. 

“Actually,” she starts, her forehead creasing as she works the cork out gradually, “we went for a very nice Valentines breakfast this morning, and—” the cork pops right out and bounces off the ceiling, while Cosette stops mid-sentence to slurp up the champagne that fizzes over the edge of the bottle. “Anyway, it wasn’t missionary.” 

Courfeyrac barks out a laugh and nudges Marius, who has gone completely crimson and looks as though he might keel over and die at any moment. 

“I don’t know why we had to do anything at all,” Enjolras grumbles, picking at a loose thread on one of his socks.

“Maybe because it’s _Valentines Day_ and we all _love_ each other,” Cosette shoots straight back. “And because my dad is visiting a friend and I reckon we should have a drama free night in. You know, one where nobody vomits in a bush or passes out at a bus stop at five in the morning.” 

“I happen to cherish those nights very much—” 

“Shut up, Grantaire.” 

Enjolras knocks his head back against the armchair and stretches out his arm to snatch the bottle from Cosette. “We don’t need a stupid holiday to actually admit how we feel, it’s ridiculous, all of it.” He takes another swig, and it’s honestly all he plans on drinking tonight. He realises that he doesn’t remember the last time he drank out of a real champagne flute. Probably that birthday dinner last year with his parents. “It’s just a superficial corporate holiday – you do realise that, right?” 

“Are you honestly going to do this?” Combeferre sighs, and before he knows it Cosette is reclaiming the champagne from Enjolras and passing it over to Combeferre. 

“I mean the idea that your love is only valid if you buy a box of shitty chocolates and some roses, while everyone else is doing the exact same thing just because they think they’re supposed to – it’s fucking ridiculous!” 

“Chaucer did it. They gave handwritten cards and flowers to their loves – that’s not very corporate, is it?” Jehan frowns, and Courfeyrac is playing with his hand and touching each of his fingers in turn with a small smile. 

Enjolras sits up straighter, his eyebrows pulling together as he stares at Jehan. He’d expected Jehan of all people to agree with him, and he feels a little off kilter now. “It is when everyone’s just trading mass-produced greeting cards with no real sentiment behind them. It’s just another excuse for—” 

“Big businesses to squeeze money out of the public by making them believe they’re better people if they splurge on thoughtless gifts to express love.” 

Courfeyrac and Combeferre are both smirking at each other throughout their monotone interruption, and Enjolras’ ears heat up as they finish his sentence in an exasperated imitation of him. 

“He says the same thing every year,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras thinks he hears Grantaire stifling a chuckle. 

“Well maybe there’s one thing you and Grantaire agree on after all.” Eponine smiles up him, and there’s something dangerous in it, the way she holds Enjolras’ gaze for a few seconds too long.

“You say that, but it’s not all bad.” Grantaire finally sits up and he slings an arm around Eponine, tugging her close to him. “Always an abundance of people looking for a good fuck. Even the prettiest girls will stoop so low as to shag me on Valentines Day.” 

“Ugh, fuck off.” Eponine shoves Grantaire away with a hand pressed against his cheek, and he tumbles out of her lap chuckling. “Sorry bud, don’t think anyone here is desperate enough to fuck you tonight,” she says lightly, poking Grantaire in the ribs. 

Enjolras holds his breath when Grantaire’s gaze flickers to him, and his heart is practically in his throat when he doesn’t look away, a crooked smile working its way onto his lips. 

“How about it, Enjolras? Fancy a pop?”

Grantaire probably knows exactly what he’s doing, knows that Enjolras’ limbs have all frozen in place and his mouth is too dry to get any words out, not that he has the faintest idea of what to say. He doesn’t have to do anything though, because after a heavy pause Eponine is cackling on the ground and everyone else fills the room with laughter too. 

Cosette’s fingers tap on his shoulder though. It doesn’t mean anything—it can’t, because she doesn’t even say a word—but there’s something there, something in her face that makes him feel uncertain. 

Enjolras only slightly regrets his decision not to continue drinking with the others. 

He knows it’ll be worth it when he wakes up without a god-awful headache tomorrow morning, no uncomfortable feeling of his stomach crawling its way up his throat, and no disgusting taste of stale socks and mouldy carpet in his dry mouth.

But the thing is, he’d really rather be less than stone cold sober for what’s happening right now.

“Come _on_ , we’re not thirteen years old, this is so cringey at our age,” Eponine complains, and Enjolras agrees with her entirely. But Courfeyrac has already pushed the coffee table to the wall and is forcibly dragging everyone to sit in a circle. 

“It’s a worldwide day of love and romance – what is not loving or romantic about spin the bottle?” He says, setting down one of the empty champagne bottles in the middle of their lopsided circle. “It’ll bring us closer together and seal all of our deep emotional bonds.” 

“That sounds sort of revolting, I’d rather not.” 

“Enjolras, nobody cares.” 

Enjolras glares at Courfeyrac and throws a piece of chocolate at him, and there’s a smudge left on his cheek from where it hits him right in the face. Jehan is there in an instant, licking it off with a slow drag of his tongue before he cracks up and snorts in Courfeyrac’s ear. Enjolras is prepared to forgive Jehan because at least he crawls over and manages to squeeze himself in the space between Combeferre and Enjolras, still giggling when he flops over into Enjolras’ lap.

Of course it’s equally as impossible to stay miffed at Courfeyrac, because his blinding smile is actually capable of turning screaming babies into happy little bundles of chub. That, and he doesn’t make Enjolras go first. 

Joly ends up going first, and he’s drunk enough to be completely giddy about it. In fact, Joly is pissed out of his mind and would probably do anything for a laugh at this point. His contacts had gotten itchy a while earlier so he’s got his glasses on instead, completely skewed across his face as he leans forward and almost topples over to reach the bottle. It lands on Feuilly, and they only kiss for a moment because once they knock teeth Joly can’t stop laughing. 

Courfeyrac and Bahorel kiss with much more enthusiasm than anyone asks for – an exaggerated display than ends in them rolling around on the floor while making the most ridiculous noises. Marius is bright red and wheezing afterwards, and he follows it up with a much more tame kiss from Bossuet.

Combeferre stills when Eponine’s go lands on him, and Enjolras coughs into his fist to hide a snigger. It’s all very swift, Eponine pushing her hair away from her shoulders as she says, “Come on then, show me what you’re made of,” and it goes quiet when they kiss. Combeferre pulls away with pink dusting his cheeks and a shy half smile, looking rather pleased with himself, and Eponine is sat blinking with her lips still parted. 

Enjolras and Courfeyrac share a knowing look among themselves, but then Courfeyrac finally decides to round on him. 

“Okay okay, Enjolras, you go!” He’s still lying flat on his back and flapping one arm in Enjolras’ general direction impatiently. 

It’s not like he hasn’t done this before – first year of university was full of spin the bottle and Never Have I Ever and Twenty-One Dare. Except Grantaire is sitting a few feet away and he’s drinking Valjean’s expensive whiskey and he’s waiting for Enjolras to get on with it like it’s the most amusing thing in the world. God, he’s so caught between wanting it land on Grantaire so he kiss the smile right off his face, and wanting it to be anyone _but_ Grantaire.

He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what he wants at all. And that’s the whole bloody problem most of the time, isn’t it? He shushes all the voices in his head competing with each other and he spins the bottle with more force than he means to, and it feels like the thing will never stop turning and he just sits there watching it, gradually getting dizzier until it lands on Cosette. 

He lets out a breath that he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding, relief rushing through his veins when he sees her batting her eyelashes at him. He doesn’t look at Grantaire when he crawls over to meet Cosette in the middle and kneel in front of her. He doesn’t even think about Grantaire when Cosette is the one to kiss him. 

Well, he might. A little bit. Minimally. But only because Cosette is lovely and all, but he really is incredibly fucking gay and it’s so much better with Grantaire, better than it is with anyone he’s ever kissed in his life.

They pull away and Cosette wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, both of them making silly grimaces at each other and squashing down laughter as they shuffle back to their places. 

“That was really—” 

“Weird,” Enjolras finishes, and Cosette nods sagely. 

“Let’s never do that ever again, oh my god.” 

Enjolras chances a glance at Grantaire, and he’s looking sheepishly back at Enjolras before he starts laughing raucously and gets everyone cackling along with him, and Enjolras feels his stomach cramping and his cheeks hurting when Cosette blows him a kiss and makes him double over.

“My eyeballs are burning!” Jehan howls, rubbing vigorously at his eyes before he falls to the floor and sprawls out. 

“Do you remember that time a girl kissed you in year eleven and then she saw your face and she apologised for like, ten minutes. Fucking brilliant.” Courfeyrac pretends to wipe a tear from his cheek and Enjolras throws a cushion at him. 

“You are a violent creature – stop attacking me!” 

“Shh, Courf, he’s the one who’ll be looking after us all in the morning so like, be nice,” Bossuet coos, climbing all over Courfeyrac’s back and poking his dimples with a dopey smile on his face. 

“That’s definitely wishful thinking,” Enjolras mutters. A half-eaten chocolate hits him in the forehead not even a second later. He’s actually quite hungry, which isn’t too surprising when he considers it. Chocolate and cupcakes are not enough to sustain a sober teenage boy. “I’m getting food, anyone want anything?” 

The roar of requests that follows is deafening and Enjolras ignores all of them, rolling his eyes when he gets up and heads for the kitchen. He’d followed Jehan there earlier in the evening, but he’s already forgotten his way around, and every room seems to have at least three different ways of getting there. He wanders around the hallways for a while, peering into rooms and cupboards and linen closets whenever he gets the wrong door, until finally he wanders into the kitchen. 

It’s already a tip – half eaten cookies strewn across the countertops and spilled drinks drying in sticky puddles. The fridge is a dream though – massive and fully stocked and more inviting than heaven itself. Enjolras pulls out a bowl of left over mashed potato and pops it in the microwave, and when Cosette finds him he’s sitting on the island and eating straight out of the serving bowl with a spoon. 

“You’re lucky everyone got distracted by a film and forgot you mentioned food,” she says, resting her elbows on the granite next to him. “Give us a bit, hm?” 

Enjolras loads up the spoon and tries to feed Cosette, but she starts giggling and her face is a little bit covered by the time they’re done.

“So, I was wondering,” she begins, her forehead resting against Enjolras’ side. “What’s going on with Grantaire?” 

Enjolras’ pulse picks up, but he says as evenly as possible, “Nothing, why?” 

Cosette steps back and quirks an eyebrow at Enjolras. “Not everyone in this house is an idiot. I’m not blind, you know.” 

“I dunno what you’re talking about.”

Cosette heaves out a sigh and walks over to the freezer, pulling out a tub of ice cream and another spoon. “Do you remember Marius’ birthday? When I found you watching him like a lovesick puppy – really bloody jealous, you were.” Enjolras nods because she won’t let him deny it and Cosette plants herself up on the counter next to him. “You had the same look when he had to kiss Jehan earlier. Like, you’re a good actor, but not that good.” 

“Cosette—” 

“No wait, ‘cause like, I’m not sure what’s going on, and I don’t wanna spook you. But when me and you kissed? I thought Grantaire was going to bite my head off for half a second, but then he just looked a bit sad and embarrassed. And I mean it’s not like – well you two have been pining for _months_ – but something seems a bit different.” 

Enjolras has no idea what to say, whether he should just tell Cosette absolutely everything or keep up what he’s already got going. He really doesn’t want to ruin everything. He doesn’t want Cosette to know and Grantaire to think it’s too weird, tell him that he’s overstepped and it’s gone too far now. Enjolras just _really_ doesn’t want to lose Grantaire and his smirks and his quick darting glances and touches in the dark. 

It’s like, Enjolras knows what they’ve got is going to hurt him a lot in the long run. But it’s so hard to think about that when they’re sneaking into the Musain toilets, kissing up against the locked door while their friends are drunk and unaware in the back room. It’s even harder to be sensible about this when he’s got Grantaire in his bed, taking him apart slowly and carefully and holding him down, or when he breaks down Grantaire’s defences and gets to see him trembling and crying out too. 

Right – Cosette – they were having a conversation. One that he is definitely not prepared to have, no, absolutely not. 

He breathes out and slings an arm around her, pulling her a bit closer until all he can smell is that vanilla stuff she uses in her hair. He wonders if Grantaire likes vanilla, because if he does than Enjolras is not above asking Cosette what product she uses if it’ll make Grantaire melt into him.

“You’d be a really nice girlfriend,” Enjolras sighs, and Cosette just manages to rest her head on his shoulder. “You know, if I was into girls and that.” 

She laughs softly and pats him on the knee, holding out the ice cream to him. “Well you’re very much not, and I’ve got a perfectly fine Marius anyway. Besides, I think this is it for you. Grantaire, I mean.” 

That just – it makes Enjolras’ chest _hurt_ , because what if she’s right and Grantaire is it for him – he still can’t _have_ him. He wishes he were back at home, back in Courfeyrac’s bed with warm bodies curled around him, keeping him together even though he’s convinced everyone he doesn’t need it. 

“What about Grantaire?” 

Enjolras’ head shoots up. Grantaire has just ambled into the kitchen and he leans against the side of the fridge as he drains his glass. 

“Nothing,” Cosette says plainly, “mind your own business.” 

“Sort of is my business though, isn’t it? Being my name and all.”

Enjolras picks up a tangerine from the fruit bowl and lobs it at Grantaire. It doesn’t help unwind the tight coil in his chest like he’d hoped it would. 

“Ow!” Grantaire rubs his arm where it’d hit him, before throwing it back at Enjolras and catching Cosette’s shoulder instead. “What is with you tonight, it’s like you’re out to murder us all.” 

“I’m going to the loo. Cosette, where’s the bathroom?” 

Cosette gives Enjolras a bewildered look, her eyebrows climbing up towards her hairline, and then she looks back at Grantaire just once. “You’ll just get lost again. Grantaire, go show him would you?” 

Enjolras stares at her wide-eyed until she’s pulling him down from the counter and shoving him towards Grantaire. 

Grantaire has his hands shoved into his pockets as deep as his jeans allow, and he tosses a small smile over his shoulder at Enjolras before slipping out the door. Enjolras goes after him, finding him already halfway down the hall, waiting for Enjolras to catch up. They walk in silence, the only sounds coming from the living room where everyone else is still being raucously loud. 

They turn a corner and Grantaire stops outside a closed door, his fingers curled around the handle as he blocks Enjolras from passing and finally looks at him. 

“Did I do something wrong?” 

Enjolras blinks at the quiet question, something squeezing around his heart as he stares back at Grantaire’s searching eyes, his pupils flitting about from looking for something, maybe trying to gauge Enjolras’ reaction. 

“It’s just that, well I thought we were good now, you and me,” Grantaire continues, and his grip on the door handle tightens. “But you and Cosette – I walked in and it was – I don’t know—” 

Enjolras has to physically shake himself into action, otherwise Grantaire will just keep steamrolling on and Enjolras isn’t sure he can take that for much longer before he snaps and kisses Grantaire mid-sentence. “What are you talking about?” 

“We’re alright, aren’t we?” Grantaire is looking at him so earnestly and it _pains_ Enjolras that he thinks he needs to second-guess everything like this. As if this wasn’t mostly Enjolras’ idea in the first place, as if he isn’t the one doing the favour for Enjolras. 

Or maybe he does think it’s too weird after all. Maybe he’s worried that Enjolras can’t keep sex and whatever they’re doing separate from their friendship, maybe he’s finally clocked on to the fact that Enjolras is mind-numbingly choked up at all times with a terrifying amount of affection for him. 

“We’re alright,” Enjolras says softly, and he needs Grantaire to stop looking at him like that. “Cosette and I weren’t really talking about you. But, um, unless you think we’re not okay.” 

Grantaire’s shoulders fall on a heavy exhale and he shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling with his lip caught between his teeth. God, Enjolras wants to kiss him senseless. He’s probably not above dragging Grantaire into the bathroom with him. He’d get Grantaire against the sink and blow him standing right there if it would wipe the sad look off his face.

Grantaire smiles though, not quite a full one and a little bit bashful, but it’s still a smile and it has relief flooding through Enjolras. “Of course not, Enjolras. I still think you’re absolutely fantastic, so, we’re fine. I was just being melodramatic, obviously.”

Grantaire’s smile reaches his eyes this time, and he finally lets goes of the door handle and inches closer, tapping his fingers against Enjolras’ hipbone while looking thoughtful. “Can I kiss you?” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and slouches back against the door, lazily pulling Grantaire with him by the waist. “You really don’t have to ask every time.”

Grantaire doesn’t seem fussed by the amused tone of Enjolras’ voice; he just slips his fingers beneath the hem of Enjolras’ jumper and touches his skin gently. Grantaire’s mouth is distressingly far away from Enjolras’, stuck hovering somewhere between his jaw and neck when he mumbles, “Are you wearing actual cashmere?” 

“Is that a problem?” 

“Yes. You feel like heaven. I can’t promise I won’t yank this off you and ruin it.”

When Enjolras replies his voice has practically gone up an octave, what with Grantaire leaning against him, his hand fisted in the cream coloured fabric. “You’re an idiot, you know that, right?” 

“Charming, though,” Grantaire purrs in return, and Enjolras is about to melt into a puddle on the floor. Grantaire kisses him before he gets chance, excruciatingly slow and much more than Enjolras could ever hope to resist, and he pulls away with a tug on Enjolras’ lower lip. “Didn’t you have something to do in here?” Grantaire steps back with a new brightness to his eyes and he looks awfully pleased with himself when he gives Enjolras a pat on the bum and walks off. 

Enjolras is so very gone for him. He’s past the stage of even having the dignity to lie to himself anymore. He’s one hundred per cent head over heels for Grantaire and he might actually go mad with it. 

Enjolras manages to get lost again when he leaves the bathroom. 

Which is utterly ridiculous, because the house isn’t that big but he just keeps going through the wrong door into the wrong room. He ends up coming out into the entrance hall, standing in the doorway at the opposite end to the front door, where Feuilly and Grantaire are standing together and talking. 

Enjolras should just go out. He should say hey and walk straight back into the living room where the others are, and that’s definitely what he should do but obviously he doesn’t. He’s a sticker for curiosity – one day it’ll be his downfall, he’s certain of it. So he stays hidden, not quite sure what he’s expecting to hear, but maybe wanting Grantaire to say something about him, to shed some light on whatever is going on in that head of his. 

“I’m going for a piss and then I’m off in five minutes. You coming?” 

Grantaire interlocks his fingers and stretches his arms above his head, joints audibly cracking in a few places. “Yeah, sure.” 

Enjolras frowns and steps into the corridor once Feuilly has gone through into the living room. “You’re not staying?” He asks, trying not to pout even the slightest little bit. 

Grantaire startles at first but he relaxes back into a slouch and shrugs. “Nah, don’t think it’s a good idea.” 

“Why not?” 

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve got some rather unpleasant habits. I don’t want to bring that into Cosette’s house, it’d be really shit of me. Feuilly’s got an early shift in the morning so I might as well head back with him.” 

Enjolras is still frowning but Grantaire just rolls his eyes and takes a few steps towards him. He eventually gets close enough to slip a finger in Enjolras’ belt loop, pulling him forwards with a subdued smile. 

“Don’t go out tonight,” Enjolras says suddenly, not thinking at all as the words spill out of his mouth. Because he could – it’s definitely not late enough to keep Grantaire from deciding to go out.

“What?”

Enjolras swallows, meeting Grantaire’s gaze with trepidation. “I just—don’t—alright?”

It’s Grantaire’s turn to frown now, and there’s a crease between his eyebrows when he stares back at Enjolras and lets his finger go limp. “Are you jealous? Is that it? You think I might pull?” 

“I—no—I’m just,” Enjolras stammers, tripping over syllables because yes, of course he’s bloody jealous, he can feel nauseating envy seeping through his veins and he _hates_ it. He tries not to think of Grantaire sidling up to some girl in a bar, using his stupid effortless charm that works on everyone, asking if she wants to get out of there, putting his hands on her bare skin. “I’m not jealous. Fuck off.” 

“Good.” And Grantaire looks annoyed, his eyes narrowed and mouth set in a tight line before he looks away. After a moment he sighs, looking resigned with himself before he removes the finger from Enjolras’ belt loop and instead trails it up his arm. Enjolras feels goose bumps quickly rising under the soft touch and he wills himself not to shiver. “I won’t. I mean I wasn’t going to anyway. So don’t worry, I guess.” 

Enjolras isn’t sure if it’s okay to kiss Grantaire right now, but he does it anyway, leaning in quickly to press their lips together. He swallows the quiet sound of surprise that Grantaire makes before he kisses back, files it away for the later with all the other times Grantaire has done it, and he traces the line of Grantaire’s jaw before he pulls back. 

“Oh shitting fuck.”

Enjolras’ face screws up until he realises that Grantaire isn’t even looking at him; he’s looking just over his shoulder and down the hall. Enjolras turns to look and low and behold, Jehan is standing a few yards away like a deer caught in headlights, wide-eyed and frozen with a hand clasped over his mouth. 

“Jehan—” Grantaire starts, but he can’t get another word in before Jehan takes a wobbly step forwards and pulls his sleeves down over his hands.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know—I didn’t mean to—but oh my god.” 

Now that the shock has worn off Jehan looks happy and excited and Enjolras’ stomach plummets instantly. Before it can get any worse, Enjolras quickly says, “You can’t tell the others.”

Jehan stops, the smile slipping straight off his face as confusion washes over him. “What?”

“Please, Jehan. Not even Courfeyrac, alright?” 

Jehan looks from Enjolras to Grantaire with a baffled expression – Grantaire who has stayed unusually quiet and won’t even look at Enjolras. 

“Jehan?” Enjolras presses again, and he’s finally met with a slow nod of agreement.

Grantaire clears his throat and starts digging around for his boots in the pile of shoes. He doesn’t start speaking again until he’s doubled over and haphazardly tying his laces, and Enjolras thinks that his hands might be shaking. “Um, I’m going to wait outside for Feuilly. Tell Cosette I said goodbye.” 

And just like that he’s out of the door, probably standing on the street with his arms wrapped around himself to keep warm, his jaw clenched to stop his teeth chattering. Enjolras is worried even to turn around, knowing that Jehan will still be there waiting for an explanation, and he’s absolutely going to disapprove of what’s going on. 

“Enjolras,” he calls out softly, and when Enjolras does turn around he’s closer than he was before. His eyebrows are still pinched together in a frown though, and Enjolras knows it’s coming. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?” 

Enjolras just shakes his head, lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug and stares at the ground. “I really don’t want to talk about it. Not now, anyway.” _Not ever_ is what he really means, but Jehan doesn’t have to know that at the moment.

  

\---- 

 

“There – muzjiks.”

“What the fuck are muzjiks?” Eponine asks indignantly, sending Enjolras one of her signature looks over the rim of her glass. 

“It’s an old word for Russian peasants, of course.” Grantaire throws a skittle at Enjolras, almost knocking over the scrabble board when he leans over it. “God, Eponine, everyone knows that,” he continues sarcastically, twisting back around in his seat to grin at her.

“Grantaire, I swear to heaven above that if you spill my tea—” 

“Sorry, sorry! Look, I’m sitting still.” Grantaire pulls his legs up onto the seat with him so he can cross them, clasping his hands around his ankles as he turns a sweet smile to Jehan instead. Enjolras isn’t sure what he’s on, but Grantaire has been antsy all afternoon and won’t stop fidgeting or flitting around the place, and he’s already sent a game of Boggle crashing to the floor. 

They do this sometimes – sit in the Musain on boring afternoons when the place is half empty in that stretch between the lunch and evening crowd. The jukebox is churning out a Beatles song while they make use of the oddly well-stocked supply of board games, tables pushed together as always and stools and pouffes dragged up as they dribble in one by one over a few hours. Slotted in the gaps of Monopoly, Scrabble, and Operation, are pots of steaming tea and mismatch cups with chips in their delicate floral patterns, right alongside pints of beer and the odd brownie or slice of cake.

“Enjolras, it’s your turn, come on.”

Enjolras tears himself away from watching Grantaire assess the selection of letters before him, and instead turns to Bahorel’s rather rowdy game of Monopoly. He and Feuilly may be quite drunk. It may be ten past four in the afternoon. Bahorel has also managed to put two more houses on Old Kent Road and is rolling in money while Marius counts his pitiful amount of banknotes. 

In a stroke of luck, Enjolras’ battleship token ends up on The Strand, and he thinks he’s being normal and discreet when he buys it but just as he’s coughed up the money, Grantaire pipes up again. 

“Don’t think we don’t know what you’re doing, mightiest leader of mine. Could it be that, oh, I don’t know, you’re attracted to The Strand’s very close proximity to Trafalgar Square? Planning on erecting a mansion that overlooks Nelson’s column? Marius might cry on your doorstep, mind you.”

“Napoleon wasn’t that bad…” Marius mutters quietly, but his cheeks have gone red and he’s refusing to look at Enjolras. 

Enjolras narrows his eyes at Grantaire instead. “You’re not even playing.” 

Grantaire grins wildly, and there’s something twitchy and cranked up about him that tugs at Enjolras’ mind, starting an itch under his skin that is at odds with the flutter of his heart when Grantaire winds one his curls around his finger and puts on an expression of pure innocence. “I’m just saying, doesn’t the entire premise of Monopoly go against our collective morals as a group? And like, every bone in your body.” 

“Maybe you should concentrate on finding a better word than _phallus_ for Scrabble,” Enjolras bristles, and he bites down on an additional reply that could be much more scathing. Grantaire just smiles even wider though, and Enjolras’ prickling annoyance turns into something else entirely, a new feeling niggling under his skin instead.

“Phosphene.” 

“What?” 

“That’s my word,” Grantaire says, his voice a little softer now. “When you rub your eyes and see all those fuzzy colours that look like stars. Phosphenes.”

Enjolras looks to Jehan automatically, because honestly, he has no idea whether that word actually exists. Jehan just shrugs with the corner of his mouth quirked up, tucking a flyaway strand of purple and mouse-brown hair behind his ear. “Valid word, and a very nice one too. Combeferre?” 

Combeferre nods sagely while sipping his tea and his glasses slip down his nose. He looks as though he’s about to speak but he’s only got as far as opening his mouth when Eponine pushes his glasses back up with one extended finger, her lips stretched wide around a snorting laugh as Combeferre freezes blankly. “You’re a massive dork,” she says without much bite, and she kisses him on the cheek before standing up to ruffle Grantaire’s hair and get herself another drink. 

“Oh, okay then,” Combeferre almost whispers, and Enjolras doesn’t think he even remembers that he’s in a room full of people because he touches the purple lipstick print on his cheek and looks happily bewildered. 

His daze is cut short by a startled screech from Bossuet and a piercing buzz from their table. 

“Babe, do you not think that maybe you aren’t cut out to play Operation?” Joly asks with genuine sympathy. Bossuet winces and passes him the tweezers gingerly, offering a sheepish apology to everyone else. 

“Yeah, I’m bit shit with most board games to be honest. Buckaroo is the worst, haunted my childhood.” Bossuet gives a little shudder and shuffles closer into Joly’s side, and Bahorel loudly pretends to gag when Joly presses a little kiss to the tip of his nose. 

“You two make my teeth rot,” Bahorel grumbles, sprawled out as he counts his money in the most exaggerated of ways. 

“Sounding a bit jealous, mate.” 

“You can piss right off, or I’ll nick your money when you’re not looking.” 

Feuilly just smirks back down at the table where he’s rolling a cigarette, kicking roughly at Bahorel’s ankle for good measure. The Monopoly board shifts an inch as the table gives a feeble wobble, Bahorel and Feuilly not even looking at each other while they jab at each other with elbows and knees. They don’t stop until Courfeyrac stands up and forcibly separates them both by the ear, a satisfied grin on his face when they rub the side of their heads with a whine. 

Everything takes a turn for the worst  a little while later, once they’re all fully immersed in their games and Bossuet has brought back another round of drinks from the bar. Enjolras isn’t quite sure how it starts, but it might be when Eponine accuses Bahorel of siphoning bank money into his own funds. It doesn’t help that at the same time, Enjolras has fallen into another round of bicker with Grantaire over Scrabble, and his cheeks are warm and he’s still buzzing underneath his skin but Grantaire’s mirth increases with every inch he pushes Enjolras. Everything happens at once, really; Bossuet elbows a glass off the table and Bahorel is still booming indignantly at Eponine, and once Enjolras tunes into the Monopoly argument he can’t help but be ruled by his competitive streak and he’s sure he says something but mostly he just makes a sudden movement with his hand that knocks over a candle, and _shit_. 

“Shit.” 

“Um-” 

Enjolras may have caused a small fire. There are flames eating up a paper flyer for something or another, smack bang in the middle of the Monopoly and Scrabble boards, and nobody has actually moved to do anything. Grantaire and Bahorel might actually be laughing. 

“I should go ask Musichetta for the fire extinguisher-” Joly starts, eyes darting to the stairs before returning to the fire that’s still going.

“No! She’d kill us, and it’s tiny anyway. Feuilly just empty your pint on it!” Courfeyrac says, and he’s already leaning in to do exactly that when Combeferre stretches over the tables and puts the flames out with someone’s tea, a look of total exasperation on his face. 

“Remind me why I go anywhere with any of you?” Combeferre sighs, frowning down at the wet puddle enveloping the charred remains of the flyer. Marius makes to mop it up with his sleeve before Courfeyrac grabs his wrist and fixes him with a look, the one that he seems to reserve for Marius alone when he’s about to do something ridiculous. 

Everyone has calmed down and sobered a little from the all the commotion, and it’s all fine until Bahorel turns to Enjolras and asks, “Was that an elaborate distraction? Did you cheat while we tried to stop the Musain from burning down?” 

It’s not that Enjolras _actively_ reaches for a handful of Scrabble tiles with the intention of lobbing them at Bahorel’s face - it’s more that he’s being challenged by only other person who equals his competitiveness and his hand acts of its own accord. 

Bahorel’s grin is a little manic for Enjolras to sit comfortably, but it doesn’t matter anyway because Grantaire had stood up and rounded the table to come behind Enjolras. “Alright now, easy there tiger. I’m heading home, maybe you should come with.”

Enjolras frowns up at him but it’s Courfeyrac who speaks, crying out: “Aw no, why are you going? It’s still early!” He puts on his best wounded puppy face, lip jutted out and eyes wide, but Grantaire just rolls his eyes and rests a hand on the back of Enjolras’ chair. 

“Commissions to paint, bills to actually pay. I’m very important.” Grantaire flashes a smile and puffs his chest out. Enjolras hides the disgustingly fond expression on his face behind his fist. “Come on trouble-maker, save the anarchy for the pretentious students, yeah?” He pretends to punch Enjolras lightly in the cheek, his knuckles softly tapping Enjolras’ cheekbone as he smirks down at him. 

“You’re the most pretentious person I know,” Enjolras grumbles, and he swerves out of Grantaire’s reach. 

“Rich coming from you, you massive twat.” Grantaire raises his eyebrows and bites down on a smile, his hand suddenly reaching out to yank on one of Enjolras’ curls as he taps his foot expectantly. 

Enjolras forgets how syllables work for a few heavy seconds, his mouth open and eyes wide at Grantaire as he tries desperately not to think about anything inappropriate. It’s too late of course, his cheeks are burning and all can see behind his eyelids is Grantaire pulling roughly at a whole handful of his hair instead, that heated look in his eyes when they’re pressed close together and he looks like he wants to wreck Enjolras to pieces. 

Enjolras laments his tragic soap opera of a life. He’s practically packing a semi from one insignificant thing in a room full of their friends. He needs to exile himself to the desert for the rest of eternity. Or maybe Antarctica where he probably wouldn’t be able to get it up even if he wanted to. 

“Honestly, you’re a pain in the arse today. Come on, up.” Grantaire wants to kill Enjolras, he really does, because he’s pulling Enjolras out of his chair with a fistful of his hair and it’s torture. Enjolras doesn’t know when this became a real thing - when fingers slipping through his curls meant wanting to get down on his knees for Grantaire - but it’s definitely a very real, very present problem. 

Enjolras staggers to his feet and knocks his knee on the table edge, the sting of it barely noticeable compared to the blush working across the back of his neck. “Sorry, yeah, um, let’s not do board games next time. Bye.” 

Grantaire all but drags him out with a respectable sort of grip on his elbow, Enjolras following after him in something of a daze. He just wants Grantaire to kiss him, wants Grantaire’s hands in his hair and maybe more, maybe a lot more. The walk home seems like a terrible, terrible feat that he is not at all capable of. 

“I can’t believe you did that,” Enjolras mutters as they breeze out the front door with nothing but a wave in Musichetta’s general direction. 

Grantaire presses into his side once they’ve turned the corner and reached the end of the Musain’s street. “God, I didn’t know you’d - I don’t know - fucking react like that.” 

Enjolras comes to a slow stop, blinking against the blanket of fog that has settled over the city while they’ve been inside. “Really? Because like, every time you do that someone’s pants usually come off. By this point it’s like conditioning - I’m like Pavlov’s dog. Or something.” 

Oh god. Enjolras has absolutely no idea what he’s saying. He’s slipping into insanity and he has only Grantaire to blame. 

“Are you okay?” Grantaire asks, his voice coloured with laughter. He feels Enjolras’ forehead with the back of his hand, then his eyes lower to Enjolras’ mouth, his hand moving to cup his cheek instead. 

“Absolutely not. Please kiss me before I burn down another pub.” 

“You’re such a tit. You know that, right?” 

“ _Grantaire_.” 

Enjolras’ knees don’t buckle when Grantaire’s fingers slide into his hair again to drag him down, but it’s a close thing. He tastes like red wine and his mouth is warm in the brisk February air, and Enjolras will never stop loving the way Grantaire uses his whole body to kiss him, how he plasters himself against Enjolras’ front and still tries to get closer, his back arching as they kiss deeper, deeper, deeper. 

Grantaire mumbles something about home against Enjolras’ lips, pulling away with one last tug on Enjolras’ hair, and he stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets before starting off down the road. 

They end up on the beanbag in the alcove of Enjolras’ room. It’s one of their stupider plans (not that there’s a whole plethora of great ones either), but Enjolras really doesn’t care that the thing keeps sagging backwards in warning with every roll of their hips because there’s bare skin everywhere and it’s hot, Enjolras is so hot and the room is on fire and he’d sooner tear his own skin off than extricate himself from Grantaire’s lap right now. 

Grantaire’s mouth is trailing down the column of Enjolras’ throat, hot breath almost as dizzying as the teeth that he sinks into the juncture between Enjolras’ neck and shoulder. They should be louder, probably, because they’ve got the house to themselves but they’re still so used to sneaking around and covering each other’s mouths and muffling their sounds. The air thick though, it doesn’t matter, not in the silence of the empty house when Grantaire’s heavy breathing is loud in Enjolras’ ears, when Grantaire holds their foreheads together with a fistful of Enjolras’ hair and he fucking _mewls_. 

It’s sweaty and it’s slow and it’s sticky, Grantaire rolling his hips up to meet Enjolras grinding down, and Enjolras wants to lick the sheen of sweat right off Grantaire’s collarbone so he does. The angle changes the slightest bit, barely enough to notice except for how the slide of their cocks becomes monumentally better and Enjolras feels like the air is being punched out of him as he accidentally bites down on Grantaire’s sternum. 

“Cheeky,” Grantaire laughs breathlessly, and he drags Enjolras head up and his eyes are bottomless and half closed and Enjolras feels like he’s on the very edge of combustion. Enjolras shakes at the feeling of nails scraping down his back, right between his shoulder blades and following the line of his spine, and he’s never felt like he could lose himself in the way that he does now – the way he always feels when they do this – and the stifling terror makes him grind down that little bit harder. 

Grantaire’s fingers unwind from his hair and Enjolras does his best not to whine, hopes the look he’s giving Grantaire says enough instead. But instead, Grantaire’s thumb comes down to drag across Enjolras’ lower lip, pressing into the swell as Grantaire watches with a dazed kind of intensity. 

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, and Enjolras has spent fifteen minutes lazily writhing in Grantaire’s lap trying getting off, but it still makes his cheeks heat up. “God, you’re beautiful,” he repeats, before two of his fingers slip past Enjolras’ lips. 

The coil of heat at the bottom of Enjolras’ abdomen blazes, and he feels it curling up his spine in hot licks as his sucks Grantaire’s fingers into his mouth, curls his tongue around them and tries to stay right here even though he’s half-lost already, feeling like he’s submerged in water and all he can hold onto is Grantaire. A distant warning bell rings in Enjolras’ ears, one telling him not to let this happen, not to slip any deeper into this thing that he still can’t scratch out of his skin, but he ignores it in favour of Grantaire’s flushed skin and he digs his nails into Grantaire’s shoulders. 

“You know,” Grantaire starts, pulling his fingers away from Enjolras’ mouth to trail them down his back, the wet streak of saliva cooling on Enjolras’ skin to give him goose bumps. “There’s something we’ve never—you’ve never asked for.” 

Grantaire’s thumbs press into the dimples above Enjolras’ bum, insistent and firm as he noses around Enjolras’ jaw, bucks up into another roll of hips. 

Enjolras can’t get out anything but a vaguely inquisitive hum for a few seconds, his eyebrows pulled together and his thighs burning faintly. “What?” 

And Grantaire’s answer is a spit-slicked finger dipping down between Enjolras’ cheeks to give a feather-light press against his hole. Enjolras feels his heart jump all the way up to his throat, and Grantaire’s barely doing anything but there’s an implication in that and he doesn’t know whether to keep grinding down on Grantaire’s cock or rock back against his finger. 

“ _Oh_ —that’s—” Enjolras swallows the rest of his sentence, his mouth open around a noise that gets trapped somewhere in his throat. And Grantaire might be breathing words against his chest, whispering underneath his ear, but it’s all white noise to Enjolras when his finger pushes a little bit harder, not quite going in but enough to have Enjolras coming with a harsh jerk, the muscles in his stomach seizing up almost painfully as he spills between them. 

Enjolras’ head is still spinning when he leans down to catch Grantaire in a messy kiss, his breathing still erratic and Grantaire gasping into it, and it has him coming just afterwards, shuddering beneath Enjolras with his eyes screwed shut while he makes a mess of both of them. They stay like that for a while, sweat and come drying on their skin uncomfortably, but Enjolras still feels like his limbs have all turned to jelly and he doesn’t trust his legs to carry him. 

“You’re going to fuck me next time,” Enjolras mumbles, and he feels sluggish and sleepy with Grantaire’s fingers pushing through his damp hair. “Yeah, okay.” 

“ _Jesus_.” Grantaire tugs gently on a curl and when Enjolras lifts his head to look up at him there’s a lazy smile curving his lips. “If you don’t kill me first, that is.” 

Enjolras almost misses it. The sound of the front door opening and closing it quiet at best from the third floor, and it bleeds right into Enjolras subconscious until he hears Courfeyrac’s voice booming from the bottom of the stairs. 

“ _Shit_ , buggering shit,” Grantaire mutters, and Enjolras is already peeling himself away and chucking a dirty t-shirt at Grantaire to wipe himself down with. 

“I hope you’re in a better mood now – we brought Chinese food home.” Courfeyrac shouts, and Enjolras is going to come to an early death at this rate, his heart beating frantically. 

“Hurry up, out out out—” Enjolras throws himself into a pair of jogging bottoms and goes over the window, hauling it open while Grantaire is in his pants with his jeans tangled around one ankle, his elbow stuck in the arm of his raglan. 

“ _I hope you’re decent!_ ” 

Enjolras reigns in a string of curses and drags Grantaire to the window, still half-undressed and startled, and he’s barely shoved Grantaire’s boots into his arms and pushed him out of the window before Courfeyrac comes right in.

Courfeyrac stops in the middle of the room and wrinkles his nose. “It smells like sex in here. Did you just have a wank?”

Grantaire has left his jacket on the floor and Enjolras tries to kick it behind the beanbag without Courfeyrac noticing. “Hm? Oh, yeah. You should really knock, you know?”

Courfeyrac gives him a withering look and edges back to the door. “ Ugh, whatever. Put a shirt on and get downstairs, you twat. Your dumplings are getting cold.” 

Enjolras waits for the door to click shut before he collapses face-first into the beanbag, and immediately regrets it when he manages to rub his forehead in a patch of stray jizz. Tragic, absolutely tragic, that’s all he has to say for his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm rly rly sorry about that massive wait, i didn't even realise where the time was going and i'm at a very stressful point at the end of the school year with hugely important exams looming scarily near, and also i'm not in a very good headspace at the moment? so i promise promise promise this will continue, but updates will continue to be sporadic for another couple months!


	16. stripped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm alive and junkies au lives on

Enjolras has listened to Bahorel declare a lot of things – some that he’d rather not remember, actually. And even if they’re questionably worded and more often than not, shouted rather drunkenly, the sentiment behind them usually winds up being true.

Bahorel has always said that a weekend night is never nearly as eventful as a wild weeknight. It was part of a long-winded speech with some pretty dubious calculations—mostly just examples of how they’ve had more crazy piss-ups on a Wednesday than any person has a right to—but that’s not the point. The _point_ is that Bahorel was very wrong about this particular declaration.

  

It’s an ice-cold Saturday, they’re all piled into a pub in Shoreditch to see a band that Feuilly is mildly friendly with and that Jehan has been raving about all week, and it is total chaos. The pub is packed full of people, a buzz in the air as everyone mills about while the opening act go through sound check.

Feuilly and Grantaire have already gone off towards the bar to chat with the main act, the others begging off to find a good spot before everything roughens up and they’re left with a shit position behind a pillar. Yet somehow Enjolras finds himself being dragged towards Feuilly and Grantaire, Jehan’s delicate hand fisted really quite violently in the front of his shirt. 

“Hi, we wanted drinks. Who are your friends, Feuilly?” Jehan says excitedly, because subtlety is not his forte and never has been. 

“Alright, darling? You look a bit giddy,” Grantaire smiles, his eyes bright as he watches a pink flush bloom across Jehan’s cheeks. “And you look like you need a drink, Enjolras. Can’t have you pouting while we’re out having a good time.” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes but he can’t stop the smile on his lips when Grantaire pushes away from the bar to come around to his other side. He’s standing close enough for Enjolras to smell the turpentine he’s been using all day, the cigarette smoke caught in the curls of his hair and the creases of his jacket, and then the gin on his breath. 

Enjolras’ nose scrunches up. “Why’re you drinking a martini?” 

Grantaire hates gin. Enjolras _knows_ that.

Grantaire just smirks, wiggling his eyebrows as he takes a sip from the cocktail glass in his hand. “Fletch bought me one. Quite disgusting, if I’m honest, but it’s terribly rude to turn down a drink.” 

“Who’s Fletch?” Enjolras frowns, and he hates the way that Grantaire lights up at it. 

“Bassist – on the other side of Jehan.” 

Enjolras feels his mouth turn down at the corners as he glances over, and he knows it’s ridiculous but a little green monster seems to have set up shop on his shoulder. Fletch is in a _band_ and he’s buying Grantaire drinks and there are at least five people listening to him talk right now. Enjolras is miffed, to say the least. 

He snatches Grantaire’s martini and necks it back, grimacing as the gin and vermouth go down, and he hands the glass back with a weak cough and a badly concealed gag. 

Grantaire blinks. “Um, alright then?” 

Grantaire sets the empty glass down on the counter and fixes Enjolras with a suspicious look, even goes so far as to open his mouth before they’re very rudely interrupted by the presence of another. 

“How ‘bout another drink, R?” Fletch says, and his voice is rough as it catches on all the inflections of a thick East End accent. 

Grantaire shrugs and smiles. It doesn’t really mean anything - Grantaire is polite to just about anybody – but it still makes Enjolras tense up a fraction more. “Why not? If you’re buying, of course.” 

And _that_ is a little too cheeky for Enjolras to take it as strictly friendly. 

“Dirty martini?” 

“ _Very_ dirty,” Grantaire smirks, and there’s no denying the way he’s peering up through his eyelashes, holding Fletch’s gaze until he finally turns away to find a space at the bar to order. 

Enjolras rounds on him. “What are you doing?” 

Grantaire lifts one eyebrow and cocks his hip. “Erm, replenishing the drink you just nicked off me?” 

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Enjolras gripes a little too petulantly. “He called you R.” 

“Everyone calls me that,” Grantaire says slowly, as if he’s trying to gauge what exactly Enjolras’ angle is. “What’s your point?” 

Enjolras rearranges himself so that can lean against the counter, ensuring both his and Jehan’s bodies are between Fletch and Grantaire, and he lowers his voice. “He’s just trying to get you drunk – you know that, right?” 

“Well it’s a good thing you’re here then, isn’t it? My knight in shining armour and all that.” And there’s no doubt in Enjolras’ mind that Grantaire is being sarcastic, but he can’t decide whether he’s being scathing as well. 

Enjolras huffs out a breath, feeling awkward and maybe the slightest bit ashamed of how bratty he sounds. “I’m just trying to look out for you, and I don’t think I like the look of him.” 

“I’m fairly sure that Fletch is mostly harmless, otherwise he wouldn’t be friends with Feuilly, would he?” Grantaire says pointedly, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “I can look after myself just fine, so can you stop being a control freak for _one_ night? Christ, you make it sound like hanging out with someone from a good band is a bloody crime.” 

Enjolras tenses up, automatically preparing himself for a fight, but he hears the trill of Jehan’s laughter over his shoulder and remembers how happy everyone had been to go out tonight – the first time in a while that they’ve all been free at the same time and could afford to do something other than piss about in the Musain and sneak free drinks. Enjolras runs a hand through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut, counting to five before opening them again. 

“I’m going to find the others.” 

Grantaire shrugs and watches Enjolras as he turns to leave before saying, “Wait.” Grantaire pulls him in close, fingers curled around his elbow. “You don’t own me, Enjolras.” His face is hard, not necessarily _angry_ , but certainly stone cold sober. 

Enjolras gives a shaky nod. “Of course not, I just—I didn’t—” 

“Good,” Grantaire says curtly, cutting Enjolras off before he can dig himself a deeper hole. 

Enjolras takes a detour to the bathroom when he leaves, stopping there to lean heavily on the sink and stare at the grime-coated drain while he waits for his head to stop spinning. He wants so much with Grantaire but it doesn’t stop him from being any less _infuriating_ , and Enjolras is half sure that Grantaire is going to give him a stress-induced heart attack before the year is even up. Grantaire loves to pick fights and Enjolras finds it so hard to back down – that alone should be reason enough not to keep going like this. 

It should be enough to stop wishing for more than this. 

Enjolras turns the creaky tap on and splashes a few handfuls of cold water over his face. He hates being misinterpreted, and he hates how Grantaire always seems to do it on purpose. Enjolras glances at his reflection in the mirror, droplets trickling down his flushed cheeks, and he gives a helpless sort of whimper at the state of his constantly tragic not-quite-love-life. 

There’s not really any point in moping though; the Grantaire Situation has been going strong for solid months now and sulking has never once done anything to improve it. Besides, he’s not a puppy – he’s _Enjolras_. He once made a Year 11 boy cry when he gave him a stern lecture about choosing his anniversary with his girlfriend over a debating meet. 

All right, so maybe he was a bit of a ruthless knob, but that’s neither here nor there. What’s important is that Enjolras does not moon over boys and go absolutely soft and pathetic from unrequited affections – _especially_ not over boys with very serious drug addictions and ridiculous opinions about current affairs and no actual direction in life. 

He’s fine. Grantaire is probably just a phase anyway. It feels like the end of the world and maybe also a pickaxe in his chest, but that’s only because it’s his first proper experience of this whole thing. They always say your first real romance hurts the most (at least he thinks they do… he’s sure that’s what Courfeyrac’s older sisters told him when he was sixteen and Courfeyrac was in bits over the end of his first serious relationship). 

So Enjolras dries his face with a paper towel, pulls his metaphorical socks up, and joins the others a few minutes before the band come onstage. More importantly he has _fun_ ; he tries not to think about work and he doesn’t think about Grantaire, just shares a beer with Combeferre and jumps up and down during the punchy choruses with Courfeyrac and Jehan. About halfway through the set, Joly and Bossuet link arms and start dancing like idiots, occasionally slipping on the wet floor and at one point spinning around so fast that they almost topple over. 

Enjolras is already doubled over laughing when he accidentally catches Grantaire’s eye, and he feels even lighter when Grantaire just shakes his head at Joly and Bossuet with a fond smile. It hardly lasts a second, but Enjolras is sure that Grantaire focuses on him again, just a fraction of a moment where Grantaire has a special quirk of his lips just for him. 

They keep going right until the end – until everyone is dripping sweat and soaked in other people’s beer and their feet have been well and truly trampled. They hang around for a bit afterwards, grabbing more drinks and settling into a corner by the backdoor when Feuilly brings the guys from the band over. Fletch squeezes in between Grantaire and Joly, his arms coming up around both of them but giving Grantaire a particularly firm squeeze. 

Enjolras does not glare. In fact, he studiously ignores Fletch and whatever conversation he’s having on that side of the table. Instead, he throws himself into the discussion that the lead singer, Benjy, has started with Jehan and Feuilly about the importance of bringing politics to music. It’s not unfair to say that Enjolras likes Benjy a lot more than he even wants to tolerate Fletch. He’s not biased…Fletch just doesn’t gel right with him.

They sit about until it nears closing time and the band get up to say their goodbyes. Benjy reads his number out to everyone, saying that they’re not really supposed to go out tonight since they’re recording in Manchester the next day, and Enjolras invites him to come along to one of the ABC meetings whenever they’re in London again. The whole lot of them squeeze outside and head off in opposite directions, everyone that’s left starting a wobbly trek to the Musain – because they’re nothing if not predictable. 

It’s a good thing that they chose to devote practically their entire social lives to a pub with late closing hours. Not that it matters much anyway - Musichetta is always letting them stay downstairs after she’s kicked everyone else out. Even the nights when she’s not working they sometimes manage to charm their way into staying a while longer; the rest of the bar staff are rather fond of their ragtag group of misfits, even if some of them seem more reluctant about it than Musichetta and the other girls behind the bar. 

They’re sitting upstairs for once, taking up half of the main floor with all the chairs and tables they’ve dragged over. Enjolras is sitting on a cushioned footrest, his long limbs all folded up as he watches Grantaire tell a story about whichever eccentric art grad he last served at work. Enjolras almost feels hypnotised, the words coming out of Grantaire’s mouth all blurring together whilst he focuses on Grantaire’s wild gesticulations instead, the way he keeps everyone around him hanging on his every word with ridiculous voices and silly expressions and a stream of witty comments. 

Whatever happened earlier, that mess of a run-in with Fletch, seems to have been swept under the rug. Because right now, whenever Grantaire’s eyes pass over Enjolras his eyes shine a fraction brighter, and maybe that’s just wishful thinking on Enjolras’ part, but he’s not imagining the way Grantaire sometimes smiles just for him, small and hopeful. 

Enjolras blinks himself out of his own thoughts and finds Combeferre watching him from a few seats over, a knowing set to his mouth. Enjolras instinctively narrows his eyes at him but Combeferre only snorts out a laugh and turns back to Grantaire.

Enjolras heaves himself to his feet, taking a moment to crack all his joints back into place. He heads over to the bar, waving to Musichetta when she spots him approaching. He’s a couple of feet away when a girl stops him with a hand on his arm. 

“You’re the guy who does those meetings downstairs, right?” 

She looks up at him with a friendly smile, and Enjolras suspects she’s slightly drunk from the flush on her cheeks and the way she can’t quite stand still. He vaguely recognises her, remembers the messy topknot of brilliantly purple hair from a few meetings, then remembers her wearing the same red lipstick all of those times. She’d asked a few questions and joined in, always took the flyers, never looked bored. 

Enjolras holds his hand out, waiting for her to shake it as he introduces himself. “Yeah, I’m Enjolras. What’s your name?”

“Sophie.” She drops his hand but takes a step closer towards him. “I really like what you’re doing, with the group and everything, and I was just er. I was wondering if you wanted to get a drink, or something?” 

In September Enjolras might have said yes, excited at the idea of someone who genuinely wants to know more about his ideas. But he’s had the same sort of offer a few times now, and it always ends with him realising too late that the girl with her thigh pressed against his wants a little more than just his political views. He should probably just make a public service announcement about how girls are just absolutely not his preference, but rather a certain curly-haired boy with a chip in his canine tooth and ink on his fingers. 

Sophie is leaning right into him now and Enjolras can see that she’s really quite beautiful, in an objective sort of way. She looks like the kind of girls that Grantaire likes to paint, and the kind that Jehan might turn into a character, and her smile reminds him of Cosette. 

Enjolras touches her arm gently before putting a little distance between them. “Sorry, I don’t really think—”

He’s cut off by the sound of Grantaire calling his name loudly from where the others are sitting. Enjolras’ head whips around and he sees Grantaire sprawled out in his chair, pressing his empty wine glass against his cheek with a suspiciously sweet smile. 

“Get me another glass of red, darling,” Grantaire says, his voice carrying across the room clear as a bell.

Enjolras shakes his head and fights the fond expression that threatens to overcome his entire face, but it’s too late. Sophie definitely caught it and is looking at him curiously, her eyebrows furrowed, before she turns back to the group and gasps. 

“Oh my god. Is he your boyfriend?” 

Enjolras turns to look over his shoulder and sees that she’s looking right at Grantaire. 

“What?” Enjolras says, blinking dumbly as he tries to work out what to say and how to save this because _everyone_ is watching now, and more importantly, they’re listening too. 

The girl brings a hand to her face and looks apologetically mortified as she scrubs at her cheek. “Christ, I’m a bit embarrassed.” She shakes her head and laughs, glancing at Grantaire again as the blush on her face darkens. “Sorry, I thought maybe you were just friends. Oh god I’m an idiot, like, I’d wondered about it, but. It makes so much sense, actually, you’re always bickering and I just—wow—okay.” 

Courfeyrac is unabashedly watching the exchange with an open mouth, his eyes wide as they flit back and forth between Enjolras and Grantaire. The rest of the group is unusually quiet as well, some of them staring into their drinks and clearly trying pretend it’s not happening, while the rest wait impatiently for some sort of explanation – an excuse, just _any_ kind of clarification to leave Enjolras’ mouth. 

Then there’s Grantaire. He’s watching Enjolras carefully, daring him to make his next move, his eyes seeming to insist that he doesn’t fuck up. Only Enjolras has no idea what Grantaire _wants_ , and maybe that’s the biggest problem of all. 

“He’s not—” Enjolras starts, flicking through a thousand words in his head only to come up completely empty. He won’t be lying if he denies it, but something still has his stomach upturning itself. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s not – he’s not anything, really.” 

And well, fuck, that came out wrong. So entirely, outrageously wrong that Enjolras desperately wants to shove the words back into his mouth and make the whole room forget he said them at all. But they’re out there already, careless and callous words doing the damage that Enjolras knows he’s capable of, infinitely worse than if he’d raised his fist. And Grantaire does in fact look like he’s been slapped, the hurt look of disbelief plastered all over his face for only a moment before he puts on something of a scowl and quickly rises to his feet. 

“No, just the stupid bastard who dirties his sheets now and again.” 

Grantaire stares back at Enjolras coldly and nobody says anything – or maybe they do, because Enjolras can’t actually hear anything over the sound of blood rushing in his ears and his own heartbeat thrashing. He knows he needs to say something—even if his own brain weren’t screaming it, the expressions of Courfeyrac and Jehan are enough to drive that home—but Enjolras can’t do a single thing. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes, a sardonic smile curving over his lips as he huffs out something that resembles a laugh. Enjolras feels his insides cracking apart at the sound, feels like his throat is being squeezed tight and everything else is being pulled too far and thin when Grantaire hurriedly shrugs into his parka. 

“Let the girl buy you a drink for Christ’s sake,” Grantaire says, and he’s already weaving between their collision of tables and feet and bags and coats to get out. “Thought that was the whole point of me breaking you in.” 

He stumbles over Joly’s foot and Jehan is reaching out for him with a pinched look on his face as he mumbles something, but Grantaire shakes him off roughly and strides right out the door without so much as a second glance back. He’s gone and Enjolras still can’t force himself to move from the spot, and this girl is still awkwardly standing by his side and he can feel everything crashing down around him like he’d always half expected it would.

“Fancy telling us what the fuck that was about?” Courfeyrac asks, breaking the silence after a tense stretch of passing seconds. He sounds furious, but when Enjolras’ eyes find him he looks betrayed. Which is infinitely worse, Enjolras is fully aware.

“I don’t—I’m not—” 

“ _Enjolras_.” 

And the thing is, Enjolras already feels terrible, but the pained confusion in Courfeyrac’s voice hurts a lot more. He can’t quite swallow past the lump in his throat, and he won’t cry, he fucking won’t, but everyone is looking at him with varying degrees of misunderstanding, annoyance, and disappointment. He wants to sit down and tell them everything from the very beginning, wants to explain how he doesn’t know how he fell in this deep, how everything has actually been spiralling out of control since the moment Grantaire breathed smoke into his mouth whilst they sat on a garden wall, but he doesn’t think he can do that yet. 

“I’m going to go...”

Enjolras doesn’t turn back to Sophie; he just focuses on breathing in and out and blinks against the prickling of his eyes. She shuffles next to him though and starts picking her fingernails before speaking again. “This is obviously a big thing and I’m not sure what just happened. Just um, sorry, yeah?” 

She probably goes downstairs, and the conversation around them picks up again once everyone else realises that the brief commotion has fizzled out. It’s Combeferre that comes up to Enjolras, and he turns him away from the group to put a hand on the back of his neck and gently press their foreheads together. Enjolras hasn’t realised how hard he’s been breathing until it slows down to something almost normal, and Combeferre’s hand is a firm presence  that manages to ground him. 

“You alright?” He asks, and Enjolras finds himself snorting with a self deprecating smile that he probably picked up from Grantaire. 

“Not really, no.” 

“What just happened?” 

“Think you just witnessed me fuck everything up.” 

Combeferre pulls back and lets his hand slide down to grip at Enjolras’ shoulder instead, squeezing just once. “What did Grantaire mean? You know, when he said—” 

“Don’t.” Enjolras wriggles out of Combeferre’s hold and he does his best to look as sorry as he feels when he grabs his coat. “I just can’t right now, I really can’t.” 

“Where are you going?” Jehan asks, and he looks so upset that Enjolras honestly considers throwing his coat down and spilling his guts right then. But he’s trying to do the right thing, trying to actually make the right decisions now, and it’s not the time to do that yet. 

“I’m sorry. I have to do this by myself. I just have to – yeah.” 

Enjolras doesn’t give any more of an explanation before throwing open the door and heading out, feeling the need to start sprinting down the alley to catch up with Grantaire as soon as possible. He doesn’t though, knowing that Grantaire could have gone anywhere whatsoever. Enjolras could use the walk home to think as well, and getting his thoughts in order is definitely something that he needs to do right now. It doesn’t stop him hoping that Grantaire is at home, and somehow he ends up spending the entire walk worrying about what he’ll do if Grantaire _is_ home. 

He dawdles for a while, wondering whether he should just turn back and let Grantaire cool down for a while first – let _himself_ cool down as well. Enjolras spends a good ten minutes sitting on a bench outside the supermarket just trying to stop his hands from shaking, to force his breaths to come easily and regularly, to maybe think about what the fuck he can say to Grantaire to untangle this mess. 

And maybe that’s it – maybe they’ve finally stretched too far and everything has broken for good. Maybe Grantaire won’t understand this time, and a small but insistent part of Enjolras keeps saying that this could create a very noticeable wedge between all of them, and the whole group would have to awkwardly tiptoe around one another and try not to take sides when they probably already have. Enjolras tries to tamp down that voice as soon as it pipes up, because he knows his friends love him and Grantaire both, and he knows that one incident couldn’t tear them all apart beyond repair. He keeps telling himself that.

When Enjolras finally makes it home and gets out on the roof, Grantaire’s ashtray is sitting on the partition and smoke is still swirling up from it. The count of squashed cigarette butts lying in there has practically doubled since this morning. 

Enjolras doesn’t go to Grantaire’s window. It feels like cheating – feels like taking advantage and an invasion of space now. So he heaves himself back through his own and carefully treads down each step until he’s standing in front of the coat stand and the front door. There’s a hurricane raging inside of his stomach, kicking up everything it can find and dizzying him into nauseating sense of trepidation. He punches himself in the belly, just once, hard enough for it to hurt and distract himself from the overpowering anxiety. Enough for him to open the door and jump the low wall between their pitiful front drives. 

In all fairness, this probably isn’t much better. Enjolras powers through anyway, thumbing through his keys until he finds the spare that Bahorel gave him and always insists he uses—yet somehow never does—and he slowly pushes it into the stiff lock and gives it a shaky turn. He can hear Grantaire’s music from down here, which means Grantaire probably hasn’t heard the door, and it’s probably a good thing. Enjolras is hoping that Grantaire will be in enough shock to give him a minute to say something, before the door is slammed right in his face. 

Every step up towards the third floor makes Enjolras’ legs feel heavier, as though his insides are all thickening to lead and settling down by his feet, sitting heavy at the bottom of his stomach. Enjolras doesn’t really get nervous, is the thing, because he can stand up in the middle of a crowd and make a brilliant speech and he’s made people completely break down in debating competitions before, but Grantaire makes him so fucking nervous sometimes. 

Enough that Enjolras ends up standing outside his bedroom door, forehead pressed against the wood and his right hand clenched into a fist, trying to muster up the courage to knock. 

By the time he does, the sound gets lost in Grantaire’s music and Enjolras has half a mind to leg it out of there. He doesn’t though, just knocks again, more firmly this time, and he waits for Grantaire’s muffled grumbling to push the door open. 

“Oh.” 

Grantaire blinks at Enjolras for a few excruciatingly long seconds, his eyes glassy and a cigarette filter held in the corner of his mouth. That single syllable is all he says before he turns away and sits on the floor at the foot of his bed. Enjolras figures that’s as much of an invitation that he’ll get, and he tries to get a hold of his nerves as he closes the door behind him and awkwardly hovers a few metres away. 

Grantaire won’t even look at him, just throws the filter at his desk with a hard expression on his face. He misses. 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras starts, and he completely anticipates the snort that Grantaire lets out. “I mean it, I really am.” 

And Enjolras has a lot more to say but Grantaire pulls his knees towards his chest and rests his elbows on them as he works his hands through his hair. “Enjolras, you’ve got nothing to apologise for, so please just, don’t.” 

“Can you just listen to me?” 

“Absolutely not,” Grantaire groans, and he’s digging the heels of his hands into his eyes now, shaking his head and curling in on himself. “You didn’t do anything. I – _I_ should be the one saying sorry. I had no right— _none_ at all—to act like such a twat, like a _jealous_ twat of all things. But everyone knows that there’s one thing Grantaire can do, and that’s mouth off like a fucking prize wanker.” 

Enjolras looks at the ceiling and sort of begs for a plane engine to drop down through the roof and obliterate him. He knew this was going to be difficult, but he probably underestimated just _how_ difficult. “Grantaire, please don’t say sorry. I need to tell you some things, okay? A lot of ridiculous, very important things and I need you to just not speak, at all.” 

Grantaire _finally_ looks at him, his face contorted into a pained sort of frown, but he stops talking. 

Enjolras reminds himself how to breathe, keeps thinking _in and out_ while he simultaneously realises that he’s about to change everything. He’s probably going to stick the knife in for real this time, and whatever they have will be utterly ruined. There’s a tiny, fleeting, miniscule chance that it _won’t_ all go tits up, but it feels as though the consideration alone will jinx the possibility of it ever happening. 

“I lied to that girl - that’s all it was. I was scared and I’ve been confused about how I feel for months, and the worst part is that I tried. I _tried_ to make you nothing to me—a friend and nothing more than that—but I couldn’t do it. And you’re not nothing. You’ve never been nothing, Grantaire; not since the day I saw you. You’ve always been so much more and I’m the worst person in the world for only telling you that now.” 

Grantaire’s hands are trembling and he can’t shove them between his knees fast enough for Enjolras to miss it. He lip might be trembling too and when he speaks, it’s almost a whisper. “What are you trying to say?” 

“I’m trying to say that I like you – that I like you a lot and I’ve been playing pretend this entire time. I don’t know when it started, or how it happened, but I’m so fucking gone for you.” Enjolras’ voice cracks and he clears his throat, wishing that Grantaire’s face wasn’t carefully blank and could tell him something. “I lied to you as well.” 

Grantaire coughs, his frown returning. “About what?” 

“On New Years, when we started this whole thing and you decided you wanted rules. You said no feelings, but I’d already been head over heels for you and I made out like I wasn’t because I couldn’t give you up. I wanted anything I could have, and I know that’s selfish of me and I should have just _told_ you, but _god_. I really do like you, Grantaire. I feel like I’ve been going mad with it ever since that day you painted me.” And that’s it, that’s all he can possibly say right now without risking a wave of vomit clawing up his throat. Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut and prayers for Grantaire to say something, anything at all. 

There’s a good thirty seconds of silence that have Enjolras digging his nails into his palm ferociously, and then, “Is this a joke?” 

Enjolras’ eyes fly open at the sound of Grantaire’s voice, and he feels nothing but deep-seated agony at the quiet vulnerability of those four words. “No, it’s not a joke,” Enjolras says, and his burst courage must have been drained because his legs are feeling wobbly and the room is shrinking around him, closing in like it’s trying to suffocate him. 

“Do you have any idea how much you terrify me?” Grantaire stares up at Enjolras with wide eyes, but a shock of dry laughter has him looking resolutely at the wall in front of him instead. “Actually, don’t answer that. You do terrify me though, but what’s even worse is how it’s not really you, but it’s what you make me feel. How _much_ you make me feel.” Grantaire looks down as he picks at the hole of his jeans that stretches around his knee, frayed edges unravelling even more at the ministrations of his bitten-down fingernails. “Nobody’s ever done that to me before—made me want to die sometimes, with how fucking chocked full I am of all this adoration, or whatever—but you just waltzed into my life like it was the easiest thing in the world and I’m _so_ _scared_. I’m shitting bricks over here, if I’m completely honest.” 

Enjolras’ face twists. “Grantaire—” 

“Don’t. Please. Just let me say this, alright?” Enjolras nods, his heart stuck too high in his throat for words anyway. Grantaire twists his fingers anxiously as he goes on, cracking each individual knuckle without looking down, and Enjolras knows that it’s a nervous habit of his. 

“I thought it was just a crush, you know? Because you’re _gorgeous_ \- in a glowing kind of Pre-Raphaelite way – but I thought I’d get over it as we spent more time together. And I tried, I tried so fucking hard – I went home with girls with a mouth like yours or hair like yours, even this one who wore a red dress that reminded me of your coat. And it was useless, all of it, because none of them ever looked at me and started mouthing off about Chomsky or the Rights of Man or whatever it is that got you going that week. And for a while I believed that I was this disgusting person who was literally obsessed, and it took me so long to realise that it wasn’t just about fucking you. You’d stand up in the Musain and start talking and my heart would _hurt_ , and no matter what I took or drank it never stopped, and I realised that I’m absolutely bloody _stupid_ for you. 

“And – and it doesn’t get better from there, it only gets worse because what could you _possibly_ want with me? You’re this clever, brighter-than-the-sun, overachiever who’s aiming for the whole world, and what am I? I’m just some permanently stoned, always drunk, tweaked up junkie who cracks enough self-deprecating jokes for his friends to keep him around. Right? So I’m practically losing my mind from the moment you decide you wanna screw around, because why would want to mess around with me when you could have anyone you want – why would you want to be with me?” 

And Enjolras just – he feels like someone’s scooped his insides out and dumped them on the floor right in front of him – and with the nausea that’s been waving over him, they might still end up there anyway. His voice is hoarse when he speaks up again, his lips dry even as he swipes his tongue over them. “You couldn’t be more wrong, R. You’ve not got a single clue at all.” 

“Yeah?” 

Grantaire’s skin is pale as a ghost and Enjolras barely feels like his limbs are his own when he starts taking small steps towards him. 

“Yeah. Because every time you say things like that it kills me, it really fucking does. We don’t tolerate you—I don’t _keep you around_ for shits and giggles or whatever you think—you’re intelligent and funny and generous and kind and a fucking pain in the arse on a good day, but we wouldn’t be the same without you.” 

Enjolras really hadn’t planned on saying this next part, mostly because it’s nothing if not embarrassing and his cheeks are already growing impossibly hotter just as he _thinks_ about it. 

“I’m better when you’re around. You make me better. It makes no sense at all because you also make my head fuzzy with these—” Enjolras grasps at the air uselessly, hands flailing while he tries and fails to find the right words, “—these fluttery _feelings_ , but you push me and never give me an inch and I like that. I really like that about you. I like you a lot, Grantaire. That’s what I’ve been trying to say this whole time, in case you missed it. I like you and I don’t want to be with anyone else.” 

Enjolras is standing only a foot away from Grantaire now, a painful lump lodged in his throat as Grantaire looks up at him with watery eyes and a wobbly bottom lip, hugging his knees tightly to his chest. He looks so tiny and exposed and Enjolras wants nothing more than to fit himself around Grantaire’s body and hold him close, but they’re still just staring at each other with nothing left to say.

“ _Christ_ ,” Grantaire says eventually, and he pats the spot next to him. “Sit down, would you?” 

Enjolras folds himself up next to Grantaire but finds himself too scared to make a move to really touch him. Instead, he lets their shoulders brush and memorises how it feels to have Grantaire right there, pressing into his side. 

“It didn’t mean anything – the girl in the Musain. You know that I’m—” 

Grantaire doesn’t let him finish though – just grabs Enjolras’ hand quickly and slots their fingers together as he turns his forehead into Enjolras’ shoulder. “Shut up—I know that—just. Kiss me before I realise that this is all a weird fever dream.” 

“Not dreaming,” Enjolras murmurs, tipping Grantaire’s face up with gentle fingers on his jaw. He kisses Grantaire like this is the first time, and in a way, maybe it is. Every kiss until now had felt like something was squeezing around Enjolras’ chest, choking him with all the things he didn’t want to think about it - didn’t want to feel. But the hesitant way that Grantaire’s lips move against his, the way Grantaire’s breath hitches at that very first touch, it all makes Enjolras feel as though his heart is pushing and pushing, expanding outwards and getting closer to bursting with every shift of their mouths. 

And it hurts, is the thing. There’d always been a strange sort of pain in being this close to Grantaire, the way that skin-to-skin contact always burned too hot and every fleetingly soft look would feel a little like being impaled. It’s not the same now; it’s a different kind of hurting all together, the kind that’s more like an overwhelming ache, the heavy sensation of realising how much you have and how important it is. 

So it hurts, like a hard bang on the elbow that doesn’t stop reverberating, but Enjolras has an inkling that the ache is something much bigger than this one kiss - a feeling that he isn’t quite ready to think about. It’s when Enjolras realises that both their cheeks are wet, that it occurs to him that maybe Grantaire feels that ache too and is equally amazed by how much _better_ it is. Grantaire makes a relieved sound halfway between a sob and a laugh and there’s no telling whose tears are whose and Enjolras can’t stop smiling like a bloody idiot, to the point where they’re hardly even kissing anymore. 

It’s only once Grantaire gets hold of Enjolras’ hair that the shaky grin slips right off his face, his mouth falling open around a puff of breath, and Grantaire goes from zero to a hundred in an instant, his teeth tugging at Enjolras’ at Enjolras’ lip. They probably shouldn’t go straight back into this – if Enjolras could string a thought together he would probably say something horribly reasonable, like _maybe we should ease into this before we get it all wrong again_. 

Except Enjolras’ brain sort of turns to gloop every time Grantaire kisses him like this: hot and open and just this side of desperate, his fingers digging hard into Enjolras’ biceps. And sometimes it’s just so easy that Enjolras doesn’t _want_ to question it – he can’t exactly be blamed for loving the way Grantaire’s splays across his back and pulls him closer, it’s not like Enjolras can help the shiver that rolls down his spine in response. 

Once it starts, there’s a fire building in the pit of Enjolras’ belly that just can’t be stamped out, steadily getting hotter and hotter, his veins swimming with it as Grantaire licks into his mouth and slides a hand up his shirt, his rough fingers skittering against Enjolras’ skin like he doesn’t know where he wants to touch first. Enjolras _knows_ though, and he’s hauling himself into Grantaire’s lap with a grunt of frustration until his knees are bracketing Grantaire’s thighs. He wants everything he can have, and he starts with Grantaire’s shirt: a long-sleeved mesh thing, covered in moth holes and baggy enough for Enjolras to tug it off with only a moment of separation.  

He can’t help it, and he definitely doesn’t mean to say anything about it, but Enjolras has a fleeting flashback of how Fletch kept touching Grantaire earlier, and the words are out of his mouth before he can string a thought together.

“I was jealous,” Enjolras mumbles lowly against Grantaire’s mouth, and he casts his eyes downwards to watch his hands splay across Grantaire’s milky skin. He remembers Fletch’s hand on the small of Grantaire’s back, his fingers deliberately lingering over Grantaire’s when he passed him a drink. “He was all over you and I was so fucking jealous.” 

Enjolras’ nails dig in gently and he’s half angry and completely hot for it, his entire brain clouding over when he hears Grantaire’s sharp intake of breath and a hand quickly gripping his shoulder, Grantaire’s thumb digging hard into the muscle at the base of his neck. Grantaire stares at him with a terrifying level of intensity, and Enjolras feels like he’s falling headfirst into a black hole. 

“You should learn to play nice,” Grantaire says reproachfully, breaking the silence that had been suffocating Enjolras for five long seconds, feeling more like five eons. 

“I didn’t like—” Enjolras starts, but he’s distracted by Grantaire’s cold fingers slipping under his t-shirt, following the line of his spine from the top of his waistband to the dip between his shoulderblades. 

Grantaire looks up expectantly, peering at Enjolras from under his eyelashes. He’s waiting and there’s something so completely authoritative in his expression, something that Enjolras only ever sees when they do this, and he feels it all the way to his toes. 

“Didn’t like him touching you.” Enjolras frowns, trying to put the prickly discomfort that had followed him around this evening into words. “It’s—I should be the one that—I want it to be me.” 

Grantaire’s thumb tightens on his neck before his hold softens altogether and Enjolras knows he understands. Enjolras doesn’t need to say that part out loud - that he wants to have his hands on Grantaire no matter where they are, wants all of their friends to see it, not just speculate and joke. 

“Fucking right it’s you,” Grantaire says, and he looks amazed as he strokes his hand through Enjolras’ hair carefully, pushing his curls back before they flop down again a second later. “It’s always been you.” 

Enjolras swallows around the lump in his throat and surges forwards to kiss Grantaire fiercely, desperate and drowning in affection and hopelessly lost. The fact that he’s scared shitless doesn’t even come as a surprise, so he focuses on throwing himself entirely into the boy below him and the way they just fit together, as though it was never meant to be any other way. They’re almost like puzzle pieces, Enjolras thinks to himself as he wrestles out of his coat—as horrifically cliché and awful that sounds—and _god_ , why is he still wearing _clothes_. Grantaire catches on quickly though, helping him shimmy out of his hoody and t-shirt, bits of clothing flying all over the place. 

Grantaire is sucking what feels like a massive great bruise into Enjolras’ neck when he grinds up and Enjolras can’t catch his breath at all, his cock trapped between them and well and truly confined within his jeans. He lets his head droop to Grantaire’s shoulder, a soft sound vibrating from his chest, and he bears down harder, rolling his hips against Grantaire as he bites along Enjolras’ collarbone. And it’s just—it’s so much but still not enough—and even through the fog in his brain Enjolras is sure of what he wants, what he absolutely needs. 

Grantaire. It’s as simple as that. He wants Grantaire and wants all of him. 

Enjolras pushes his face further into Grantaire’s neck, hot puffs of breath dampening the skin there as Grantaire’s thumbs slip beneath the elastic of his pants. The whole room is spinning and he can’t get enough friction to slow it down. 

“Fuck me.” 

Grantaire freezes, stops everything he’s doing as if he’s actually trying to kill Enjolras. “What?” 

“ _Fuck_ me,” Enjolras whines, and he wriggles purposely in Grantaire’s lap just to get his point across. “I want you to—please.” 

Grantaire pulls Enjolras up to face him, and he looks gentle and careful and not at all like his boner is snug against Enjolras’ arse right now. “Are you sure?”

Enjolras considers the tingling numbness that has starting working through his fingers. He’s nervous, but it’s nothing compared to the niggling itch that has been steadily building since the beanbag incident, and he’s as ready as he’ll ever feel when Grantaire is involved. 

“Yeah, definitely. I want it.” Enjolras gives him a small smile, trying not to fidget as anticipation thrums wildly through his entire body. He lifts a finger to the bridge of Grantaire’s nose, runs it over the little crooked bump that Grantaire pretends not to hate, all the way down to the tip until Grantaire shakes him off, fond exasperation all over his face. 

Enjolras tries again, refusing to let Grantaire distract him from the real goal here. “I want it to be you, R, not anybody else. Do you—I mean—would you want to do that, with me?” 

Enjolras really isn’t above begging right now. In fact, he’s well prepared to do just that if Grantaire doesn’t get his jeans off and fuck him into next week. He’d really like that, wants to wake up tomorrow and feel it, and Enjolras is notorious for not giving up until he gets exactly what he wants. But Grantaire, rough-and-tumble angel that he is, nods back at Enjolras after only a moment’s deliberation. 

“Yeah—shit—of course,” Grantaire breathes, looking dazed and beautiful. His cheeks are coloured in a deep pink, a flush that spreads all the way down his neck and chest, his eyelashes still a little clumpy and wet, mouth bitten completely raw. 

Enjolras can’t help but grin. He’s so completely gone for Grantaire. 

“Come on then, get your kit off and kneel on the bed, yeah?” Grantaire says, giving Enjolras a light pat on the bum. 

Enjolras wobbles to his feet, monumentally grateful that at some point Grantaire realised that instructions make him feel a lot less lost when they do this, make Enjolras feel grounded and secure instead of feeling like he’s drowning in his own bedroom. 

He’s peeling off his jeans when he thinks about how much trust he puts into Grantaire when they’re having sex—an inordinate amount that he probably wouldn’t dream of showing him within the ABC—but he knows that he’s being looked after when their clothes come off and they’re fumbling around in the sheets. And that’s actually incredibly significant now that Enjolras thinks about it. Grantaire could have made Enjolras feel like nothing more than an inexperienced fuck, could have left him feeling cold and used and not much else, but all he’s ever done is try to make Enjolras feel looked after; even if he’d beg off and leave too quickly afterwards, he’d never make it seem like Enjolras was to blame. 

Enjolras takes a deep breath. Knowing that makes this little less daunting. He steps out of his pants and hops onto Grantaire’s bed, kicking the duvet out of the way before settling on his hands and knees. A moment later the bed dips behind him and Grantaire’s lips are on his shoulder, leaving a damp trail of kisses down the curve of Enjolras’ back really quite leisurely considering Enjolras is digging his nails into the mattress impatiently. 

They’ve done this part twice now; last time Enjolras came hard enough to have him shaking for at least ten minutes afterwards. Right now though, his toes are already curling and uncurling as he hears Grantaire uncap the lube. A shiver rolls down his spine when Grantaire presses a slicked finger inside, teasing and painstakingly slow, setting a tortuous pace that he doesn’t let up on, not even when he’s two fingers deep and gently scissoring Enjolras open like even time itself has stopped for them. 

Enjolras is hot all over, hair clinging to his neck with sweat and his clammy hands slipping across the sheets. _Finally_ Grantaire stops faffing about and does more than shallowly thrust his fingers, Enjolras keening and dropping to his elbows when Grantaire pushes further in, crooking his fingers until Enjolras is a flushed mess of breathy moans as he rocks back into it.   

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whines, his face mashed into his forearms and chest drawn tight. “Please, come on.” 

“Please what?” 

Enjolras can practically hear Grantaire’s smirk, but his answer ends up being a muffled cry as Grantaire slips a third finger in, slow and delicious in an infuriating sort of way, inching further in so gradually that Enjolras tries to push himself onto it. It doesn’t work of course; Grantaire just laughs and puts a firm hand on Enjolras’ thigh to still him. He’s talking, saying things that are probably meant to be soothing—Enjolras catches the tail end of “we’ve got time, relax”—but mostly it’s all just white noise when he starts curling his fingers again to find the perfect spot. 

Enjolras has no idea when Grantaire pulls his fingers out – for all he knows an hour could have passed. He lets out an uncertain sound of protest, his eyes screwed shut and cheek squashed against the sheet. Enjolras doesn’t even realise that his own hands are clenched around the iron bars of the headboard until Grantaire carefully pries them off, kissing each of his palms before helping him back to his hands and knees. 

“You okay?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras thinks about staying right here, in this bed and this room, until he’s forcibly dragged out. 

Enjolras cranes his head over his shoulder and finds Grantaire kneeling behind him, fiddling with the condom packet that he’s yet to open. That is just – Enjolras’ brain is about to drip out of his ears and he needs Grantaire in him _yesterday_. “I’m good—fucking dandy, really—but if you don’t fuck me in the next minute, I will kill you.” 

Grantaire instantly starts laughing and Enjolras is two seconds from snapping at him, but before he can move Grantaire is rushing forwards to kiss him senseless, pushing him to lie on his back instead. Enjolras feels his muscles relax and he melts into the sheets as Grantaire sucks his tongue into his mouth and grinds against him for a heated minute. 

“Like this,” Grantaire pants into Enjolras’ mouth, his fingers winding into Enjolras’ matted hair. “Wanna see you – you look so beautiful.” 

Enjolras nods, completely useless when Grantaire pulls away to fit a pillow underneath his hips. He just lies there, flushed and overwhelmed, feeling like he’s free falling while he watches Grantaire roll on a condom and slick himself up. His lip is caught between his teeth and he’s giving Enjolras this _look_ , the one that makes him itch incessantly underneath his skin, the one that always made him second-guess what Grantaire felt towards him, the one that makes him feel intimately special in a way that he’s never experienced before. 

The room seems quieter when Grantaire presses in, just the sound of their ragged breathing and the half-broken radiator that creaks every ten minutes, and Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut against the burn and stretch of Grantaire’s cock. It’s hurts a bit—and it’s like having his hair yanked or nails digging into his wrists—a punch-drunk mix of pain and mind-numbing arousal, one that ripples through his body until Grantaire stills, as close to Enjolras as he can physically get, his lips parted and hovering just above Enjolras’. 

It’s the most exposed Enjolras has ever been, his legs spread wide apart and a pretty boy staring straight into his eyes—not to mention the dick in his arse—but he feels the nerves dissipate, slipping away and leaving him calmer than he’s felt in a long time. It’s still a bit weird though, so he shifts his hips experimentally, just enough to create some movement, and it’s barely anything but it’s enough for him to know that Grantaire needs to do something _now_. 

“R, move,” Enjolras says, and even to his own ears he sounds wrecked, his voice reedy and pleading.

Grantaire shifts his weight from his elbows to lean over Enjolras on his hands, withdrawing slowly and pressing back in deeper. Enjolras gasps, reaching out to grip at Grantaire’s shoulders as he fucks him slowly, everything intense and thorough until the burn from before subsides and leaves nothing but a slick push and pull that has Enjolras moaning brokenly. 

Enjolras fights to keep his eyes open. Watching Grantaire fuck him is somewhat monumental, something that he’d like to keep stashed away in his memories for the rest of eternity. Grantaire is like a different person – no longer the restless waif of a boy that either can’t sit still or can’t sit up, but a solid presence pressing into Enjolras, grunting when he hitches his legs up around Grantaire’s hips and brings him impossibly closer. 

He’s beautiful like this, and Enjolras has always known that hedonism looks good on Grantaire, but right now he might as well be glowing with the way he looks down hungrily at Enjolras. 

Enjolras is falling, falling, falling. 

It must show on his face, how completely stripped he feels, because all of a sudden Grantaire is finding his hands and slotting their fingers together. Enjolras tips his chin up for a kiss and he shudders as Grantaire teases him, barely brushing Enjolras’ lips with a breathless smirk. 

He slides Enjolras’ hands up the mattress, stretches his arms out above his head, and Enjolras feels drawn tight and on the cusp of bursting into a thousand searing hot pieces. He feels grounded. Tethered. 

Grantaire finally gives in and kisses him, and it’s filthy and messy and desperate and their teeth clang together, but the angle changes and a cry is ripped from Enjolras’ lungs as he arches up into it. Grantaire fucks him harder after that, his fingers pressing against the bones in Enjolras’ hands and his mouth on Enjolras’ neck while he trembles and burns up, heat shooting up his spine and sparking from his fingertips to his toes. 

Enjolras almost sobs when he thinks of his cock, painfully hard and trapped between them, untouched. Grantaire is covered in a layer of sweat and if Enjolras ruts up he can get enough friction to make it feel less like he’s dying. He gets a few good— _incredible_ —rocks against Grantaire before he catches on and pulls almost all the way out, levelling Enjolras with a look that goes straight to his cock anyway. 

Grantaire goes back to fucking him hard and slow, pushing Enjolras another inch up the mattress every time, and Enjolras’ mind is reeling and he sort of wants to cry in frustration, tears already welling up in the corner of his eyes. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and all the while Enjolras’ chest positively aches with affection that won’t stop blooming. He’s so caught up in trying to remember how to form words, how to ask Grantaire for more, that he jolts when Grantaire fits a hand around his cock. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Enjolras groans, his eyes fluttering shut. “Keep – yeah, fuck.” 

Grantaire sucks a bruise onto Enjolras’ pulse point while he tugs him off, the dry twist of his hand sending Enjolras hurtling towards the edge of coming, a mumbled stream of nonsense tumbling out of his mouth as he’s caught between rocking up into Grantaire’s fist and pushing back onto his cock. 

“God, you’re so—” Grantaire moves to nip at Enjolras’ earlobe, his breath hot and his voice even hotter, setting ablaze every cell in Enjolras body when he groans right by his ear, gravelly and rough and ragged. “You’re perfect, you’re so fucking perfect.” 

And Enjolras wants to shake his head because he’s not—he’s the furthest thing from perfect, especially where Grantaire is concerned—but Grantaire takes that moment to flick his wrist _so_ nicely on the upstroke, and Enjolras feels like he’s suspended, gasping for air as his orgasm hammers through his entire body. 

He comes with Grantaire’s teeth on his throat and his wrists crossed, held down by just one of Grantaire’s hands. He comes with Grantaire’s voice in his ear as he fucks him through it, and Enjolras only feels half-conscious, everything fuzzy around the edges and slipping out of his grasp as he shudders.

It’s with heavy-lidded eyes that Enjolras manages to look up at Grantaire, feeling boneless and warm all over. He finds enough energy to hook his ankles around one another, boxing Grantaire in with a contented sluggishness. Grantaire releases his wrists so that he can plaster himself against Enjolras, making him whimper feebly at the overstimulation on his cock. 

“You’re so good,” Enjolras murmurs, scratching his nails down Grantaire’s back with a sigh. “So good, Grantaire.”

When Grantaire comes it’s with their foreheads pressed together and Enjolras can feel him shaking apart, holds him even tighter and kisses the corner of his mouth gently. He makes a noise of protest when Grantaire tries to pull out, locking his ankles even tighter around him. It’s only once Enjolras feels like he’s back on earth again, no longer floating outside of his own head, that he unwinds himself from around Grantaire. 

Grantaire rolls off him and chucks the condom out of sight, but he stays pressed close into Enjolras’ side, their feet overlapping and his face hidden in Enjolras’ neck while his breathing steadies. Enjolras let’s his head loll sideways and possibly goes a little cross-eyed from watching Grantaire at this distance. It doesn’t stop him though, and he can’t stop himself from grinning happily. 

“Stop staring at me, you weirdo.” 

Enjolras’ grin widens and he feels ridiculous so he shoves his face in the pillow and flexes his toes excitedly. 

Grantaire leans out of bed and grabs a handful of tissues from a box on the floor, cleaning Enjolras up as best he can before hauling the duvet over both of them. They lie on their sides and face each other like parentheses. Enjolras stares at Grantaire until he smiles bashfully and blushes, even now, and Enjolras is shaking his head in disbelief as he slots their legs together and wriggles closer. 

“That was really quite wonderful,” Grantaire says quietly, reaching out to ghost his fingers over Enjolras’ hip. “Brilliant, actually. The peak of my life to date, I think.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras grumbles, slapping Grantaire lightly. 

“Was it good? For you I mean?” 

Enjolras almost rolls his eyes. _Was it good._

Honestly.

“It was perfect. Best orgasm I’ve ever had.” He closes his eyes and thinks about Grantaire holding his wrists down. “I should write you a thank you letter.”

Grantaire kicks him but he’s got a sleepy smile on his face and Enjolras thinks that he really managed to luck out tonight. He wants much more of this in the foreseeable future. 

“This is the first time we’ve had sex in your room. Since, y’know, the very first time.” Enjolras picks at a loose thread on the sheet and avoids Grantaire’s gaze. “You’re not going to kick me out, are you?” 

Grantaire stiffens briefly, and for a moment Enjolras thinks he might.

“No, _god_ , of course I’m not kicking you out,” Grantaire says firmly, his hand flying to Enjolras’ cheek so that he’s forced to look at him. “Christ, why would you think that?” 

Enjolras swallows. “It’s just. Well you always leave. Afterwards.” 

Grantaire looks immediately stricken, and Enjolras sees it before he can school his expression into a more neutral sort of frown. He grabs Enjolras’ hand and peers down at where their fingers are interlocked, saying, “It’s probably not what you were thinking. That was always just—it was me—I couldn’t do that yet. It’s different now. We’re different, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras says softly, and he really honest to god means it, hopes with everything he has that it’s true. “Still want to do this for real?” 

Grantaire presses a dry kiss to his mouth and squeezes his hand. “Absolutely.” 

Enjolras beams, albeit blearily, and he gives Grantaire a quick peck back before nudging him over onto his over side so he can curl up around Grantaire’s back and nose against the top of his spine.

“I’ll be here when you wake up. Promise.” Grantaire settles into Enjolras’ hold and folds in on himself until he’s tiny, and Enjolras’ heart swells.  

 

\----

 

Enjolras wakes up sometime in the middle of the night, the curtains still drawn and the house silent. It only takes him a second to realise Grantaire isn’t next to him, and when he blindly shoves his arm out across the bed he finds nothing but rumpled sheets, all of the warmth of another person already gone. 

When he blinks his eyes open the room is bathed in a soft glow of orange light. Grantaire is curled up in the armchair, the little table next to him crowded with a dozen flickering candles of varying sizes. Enjolras keeps his head squashed against the pillow and just watches for a moment, before Grantaire can realise that he’s awake. Grantaire is hunched over a sketchbook and Enjolras can hear the grind of each line he makes across the paper, his eyelashes casting spidery shadows across his cheeks. There’s a biro hanging out of his mouth and another pencil slipped behind his ear, his fingertips already covered in smudged graphite and a streak of it on his forearm too.

Enjolras feels his chest tighten a notch. 

It’s some ungodly hour in the morning and Grantaire must have pins and needles, but he looks more peaceful than Enjolras has ever seen him before – he looks content. And Enjolras can’t help but smile a little bit because he knows that Grantaire is right here with him; he’s calm and sleepy and soft around the edges, but more importantly, he’s not strung out of his own mind and staring back at Enjolras with too-dark eyes. He looks like just a boy, his limbs all folded up and a blanket draped around his shoulders as he taps his pencil against the chair and hums quietly, unruly curls sticking up at the back and falling into his eyes at the front.

“Hi,” Enjolras says, because he’s starting to feel a tad creepy for staring and he wants Grantaire back in bed, the sooner the better. 

The pencil falls out of Grantaire’s mouth as his head jolts up. “Oh, you’re awake.” He clutches the sketchbook to his chest and Enjolras watches him wiggle his toes and sit up a little straighter. “Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you. I just—” 

“Everything alright?” 

Enjolras bites his lip, still a tiny bit worried for the worst, but Grantaire looks nothing but relieved for the interruption. “Yeah,” he breathes out, visibly deflating. “Yeah, everything’s fine. You know me, twitchy and restless, I don’t really sleep usually.”

“Come here.” Enjolras pats the space next to him and smiles blearily back at Grantaire when he makes to stand up. Grantaire slips right in next to him, burrowing under the duvet but leaving a few inches of space between them. Enjolras is having none of that though, and he plasters himself to Grantaire’s front and slips his leg between both of Grantaire’s for good measure. “You’re all cold now – how long have you been up?” 

Grantaire makes a noncommittal noise and just rests his forehead against Enjolras’ sternum instead. “You’re like a furnace, as bloody usual.” 

“Erm, yeah don’t pretend you aren’t always leeching heat off me,” Enjolras snorts, and he’s dizzy with how he can feel Grantaire’s smile against his skin rather than see it. 

“Alright, don’t get too full of yourself now, your head won’t be able to fit through the door.” 

Enjolras pinches his hip and can’t help but laugh at the sound Grantaire makes – a muffled squeal that turns into a grumble when he presses his ice-cold feet against Enjolras’ calves. 

“Tell me something,” Enjolras says, and he surprises himself with how serious he sounds all of a sudden. 

Grantaire looks at Enjolras tiredly across the bed, one arm shoved underneath his pillow. “Like what?” 

Enjolras pauses for a moment, purses his lips as he thinks of what to say. “Something that matters.” 

Grantaire is silent for so long that Enjolras thinks he’s not going to answer, and he practically gives up once he feels Grantaire’s eyes close.

“I’m a mess. Always have been.”

Enjolras tightens his hold around Grantaire. He thinks he knows what’s coming, and in a way he’s hoping Grantaire ploughs on so that it does. He’s scared though, terrified of what he might find out, but he knows that this is another conversation that they need to have.

“How come?” He asks tentatively, and their voices are so quiet and they’re so close and Enjolras’ hands have gone numb with apprehension. 

Grantaire pulls his face away from Enjolras’ chest and looks down, his eyebrows pinching together into a frown. “I don’t know, I guess that’s the worst part. I’m just – it’s like I’ve got this massive hole inside of me – something that chipped away at my insides until I got worn down and empty.”

“Since when? I mean—sorry—I don’t know if I can ask that.” Enjolras tenses up, but Grantaire doesn’t even flinch as he traces circles over Enjolras’ hip, his fingers just as cold as his toes. 

“Dunno; it feels like forever. I don’t remember what it’s like to be whole. It’s horrid, like I’m not even a person.” Grantaire’s voice gets small and scratchy, and his eyes squeeze shut for a second. “When you’re really empty – honest to god nothing there – you’ll do anything to fill that hole. When I was in school I thought alcohol could do it. I’d go down the road and drink vodka at lunchtime, just so I could get through the day.” 

Enjolras stills Grantaire’s hand and interlocks their fingers, squeezing tightly when he sees Grantaire swallow thickly. He squeezes back even harder, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that Grantaire is trying to keep Enjolras from knowing he’s shaking. 

“I kind of get that you care, and I kind of want to tell you this. Just so that you’ll understand me better, or something. But I need you promise that you won’t feel eternally sorry for me and base whatever we’re doing on pity. I don’t want you to do that. I’d rather you leave right now, okay – swear to me that you won’t do that.” 

“You know I’d never do that,” Enjolras murmurs softly, still gripping at Grantaire’s hand tightly. And that hurts – it really does – because Enjolras doesn’t want any of his friends to think he does things for them out of pity, rather than him really wanting to do it. One day he’s going to make Grantaire understand that he’s in this just as deep – always has been.

For now though, Enjolras lets him keep talking. He gives a small nod for Grantaire to continue and listens carefully, trying to gauge Grantaire’s expression in the dim light of the room.

“So, um, in sixth form I’d go out every weekend and drink myself stupid, school nights too. Messed about with weed and laughing gas, same as everyone else. But erm, well my mum died in my last year. And I guess that’s what I didn’t tell you last time, when you asked what the fuck was going on with me. She stopped me from killing myself and then she popped off a year later. Poetic, init? Anyway, well I told you I was eighteen and wanted a tattoo—well she’d just—yeah. She was really important to me.” 

“You’re so strong,” Enjolras says, for lack of any other words, but it’s sounbelievably true. “You know that, right? You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.” 

“Shut up.” 

“I mean it, R. I know I say a lot of things to you that are harsh – and they are harsh – but the only reason I do is because I know how strong you are. I know you can take it. I’ve only ever wanted you to see the same things in yourself that I see in you.” 

It’s too much. He’s definitely said too much. It wasn’t even meant to come out – it was like after the first admission Enjolras just couldn’t stop, the truth being pulled out of him like tugging on a loose thread. Enjolras heart is rabbiting away and he hates the way Grantaire snorts in response, but there’s no hiding when Grantaire buries his face in Enjolras’ chest again, his wet cheeks pressing against Enjolras’ skin. 

“You talk such shit, Enjolras. The thing is, you always make me want to believe it.”

“I’m not talking shit, you absolute raincloud.” Enjolras smiles even though Grantaire can’t see it, but he hopes he at least hears it. Grantaire sniffles quietly, but he doesn’t shove Enjolras away when he starts stroking through Grantaire’s mess of curls, his fingers occasionally getting stuck in clumps of dark tangles. “Let’s go back to sleep, alright? This is a bit heavy for pillow talk.” 

“Like you know anything about pillow talk,” Grantaire scoffs, and normality of his sarcastic tone makes Enjolras feels a little lighter. “Plus, we haven’t even _touched_ on my dad yet.”

Except that – _that_ was not Grantaire’s breezy sarcasm – that was something else. It was something that definitely matters and should probably be talked about. Enjolras knows that Grantaire’s dad kicked him out but he doesn’t know why, and there’s something niggling at him, telling him that knowing is important. 

“Do you want to talk about him?” Enjolras asks, because he’s getting the hang of this – realising that Grantaire needs to think it was his idea whenever he gets into a serious discussion of his personal life. Grantaire spooks at the idea of being interrogated, and Enjolras is finally working out how to draw him into opening up, without Grantaire feeling like he’s being boxed in and surrounded. 

All Grantaire does is sigh heavily though, finally pushing his body closer towards Enjolras, until there’s no wriggle-room between them, just a stretch of skin pressing against skin. “I’m not talking about him tonight. Let’s leave it for another time.” 

Enjolras nods, mostly to himself more than anything, and presses a light kiss to the top of Grantaire’s head. “It’s alright, y’know, when you do want to talk about it. I’ll still be here, I’ve always got time to listen.” 

“Go to sleep, Enjolras.”

But Enjolras can feel Grantaire’s smile, can hear it in his voice too, even if he can’t see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your continued support through a very very stressful time, even when i wasn't updating! this chapter was one of the hardest things i've ever tried to write and it took a really long time for me to be halfway happy with it once exams/holiday ended and i actually had the time to work on it.
> 
> BUT THE GOOD NEWS!!! is that my hiatus on this fic was not for nothing, i got into my first choice uni :)))))
> 
> p.s. i changed my tumblr url, i'm now at [hufflepufffharry](http://hufflepufffharry.tumblr.com), so if ur still on this ride then drop me a bell~


	17. coming out in the wash

Enjolras wakes up tangled in unfamiliar bed sheets whilst confusion works its way around his brain, his eyes still only half open. It takes a few more moments for the sleepy blur to leave his vision, and when it does he’s greeted by what is very much not his room, but rather the haphazard clutter that is Grantaire’s. 

Grantaire’s makeshift curtain does little to block out the sky, still veiled in subdued darkness and tinged with orange blurs of streetlamps. The candles that Grantaire hadn’t bothered to blow out before getting back into bed last night have either burnt down or are still glowing feebly, and Enjolras’ toes are numb with cold where the duvet has rucked up over his feet. He turns over with the hope of seeing Grantaire sleeping soundly, no defences up and his face smooth and calm, but it doesn’t quite happen like that. 

Enjolras freezes in place at the sight of Grantaire curled into a tight ball, his knees pressed against his chest as he shivers violently, teeth chattering in the quiet of the room and the duvet pushed away from him. He’s still sleeping, fitfully and with a crease between his eyebrows, but he’s definitely asleep. 

The sheen of sweat on Grantaire’s skin has Enjolras reaching out with a shaky hand to brush back the damp hair from his forehead, at a loss for what he should be doing with himself. Grantaire starts to stir with an even deeper frown, his skin clammy underneath Enjolras’ touch, and he hugs his arms tighter around himself. Enjolras hates the anxious uncertainty that sits in his gut, but all he can do is swallow dryly while Grantaire makes a pained sound and spasms. 

Though he hates to admit it—even inwardly—Enjolras is rather terrified and completely out of his depth. He can’t just lie there though, so he gently shakes Grantaire’s shoulder and gives his arm a squeeze. It doesn’t do much good; neither does quietly calling his name when he starts to writhe more forcefully. 

It’s only when Enjolras is about to give up and go grab a wet flannel that Grantaire does wake up, flopping suddenly onto his back and staring blearily at the ceiling. He looks like shit and somehow still retains an aura of loveliness; even with purple smudged below his eyes and sweat running down his temple and a crimson split colouring his dry and cracked lip. 

Enjolras gives himself a mental kick up the arse; Grantaire is sick and the last thing he should be doing is ogling. 

Still trembling, Grantaire lets his head fall to one side so that he’s looking at Enjolras, tongue coming out to wet his mouth. Enjolras follows the movement and stares at his mouth—can’t stop staring, actually—and he completely misses what Grantaire says next. In fact, Grantaire is so quiet that Enjolras barely registers that he’s spoken at all until he feels a weak kick against his shin. 

“Sorry?” 

Grantaire heaves out a shaky sigh and pierces Enjolras with a particularly intense gaze for this time of morning. 

“You should go.” 

Enjolras frowns, his stomach plummeting in record time. “You want me to leave?” 

“No, god, shut up.” Grantaire’s jaw is clenched and his hands curl into tight fists, his knuckles whitening. “I want you to stay, of course I do.” 

Enjolras looks back at him hopefully, seeing a wobbly smile on Grantaire’s face. Something flutters in his chest and makes him feel momentarily lightheaded. Christ, he’s so embarrassing; he probably puts Marius to shame at this point. 

“Right, so um - what?” 

Grantaire slings his arm across his face before changing his mind and turning onto his side again, the knobbly curve of his spine facing Enjolras. “I’m not—this doesn’t change anything—I just need you to not be here right now.” 

“But—” 

“ _Please_ , Enjolras.” 

Enjolras, stubborn as he is, doesn’t move an inch and instead pushes his fingers through the back of Grantaire’s hair, raking up from his nape to the crown of his head, sweaty curls tangling around his knuckles. Grantaire sinks into it and Enjolras wishes he could see his face now: whether his eyes are closed or his teeth are sinking into his lip. 

“I don’t want you to shut me out,” Enjolras murmurs, and it leaves him feeling dangerously exposed. 

Grantaire makes an unintelligible noise that gets muffled in the pillow, and then he’s grabbing Enjolras’ hand and pulling it across his body. “I just don’t want to ruin everything, not yet.” 

He traces a series of circles across the back of Enjolras’ hand before turning it over and doing the same on his palm. Enjolras shuffles closer, tries to ignore the way Grantaire still can’t stop shaking and sweating, and all of sudden he feels defeated. 

“Okay.” 

It’s quiet, but enough for Grantaire to squeeze his hand gratefully. He doesn’t move away, not yet, but Enjolras has enough sense to know that it’s time to go, that Grantaire is dying for a fix and must feel itchy beneath his skin with Enjolras watching him like this. 

“Promise you won’t disappear on me,” Enjolras says, and he hates how desperate he sounds. Mostly because he feels it too: this parasitic sense of desperation when he thinks about Grantaire brushing him off as too much hassle. 

Grantaire slips out from under Enjolras’ arm and reaches for the bedside table. “I’ll see you later, honestly. Keep your knickers on, will you?” 

Enjolras’ laugh is breathless, but he manages to get out of bed after hearing the familiar lick of sarcasm in Grantaire’s voice. “I’ll try my best.” 

“Of course you will.” 

Enjolras determinedly does not look towards the bed whilst he finds his clothes and gets dressed. He stares at the window, even when it feels like Grantaire is watching him and burning a hole into his back. 

He ends up looking anyway, curiosity always getting the better of him, and he finds Grantaire sitting up in bed with his arms around his stomach and a very soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Enjolras doesn’t go through the window. It feels too much like hiding and he doesn’t want to go back to what they had before. That, and he doesn’t remember whether his window is locked or not. 

The house is near silent when he leaves Grantaire’s room and descends the stairs, Feuilly already at work and Bahorel’s snores filtering out from his own room. Enjolras avoids checking his phone, shoving it in his coat pocket before he can so much as glance at a notification. He knows what he’ll find: a series of demanding texts from his friends and a worrying number of missed calls. 

Right, so he’s making his first walk of shame, that’s what this is. There’s a first time for everything, though Enjolras isn’t sure whether it counts when the walk is the few yards between his and Grantaire’s front doors. The fact that he doesn’t want to get caught is probably what _does_ make this a walk of a shame, though. 

He should have stayed with Grantaire, really, and he’d still run back into the other house and up the two flights of stairs if he thought Grantaire would want him there. But he doesn’t, so he won’t. Instead, he unlocks the door and shrugs out of his coat, carelessly throwing it across the bannister of the stairs as he heads straight for the kitchen, a steaming hot cup of tea calling his name. 

If Enjolras had expected to successfully sneak into his own house with it going unnoticed, he is incredibly wrong. As usual he continues to severely underestimate the dedication his friends give to his personal life. 

What he finds in the kitchen is decidedly _not_ a cup of tea, but what looks like an imminent inquisition. 

Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Jehan are all sat around the table in varying states of alertness, and Enjolras is filled with a strange sense of déjà vu that has him thinking of the morning after their house warming party. Combeferre’s glasses are perched on his nose as he reads the morning news off his laptop, with Courfeyrac and Jehan huddled close together around a plate of toast and two mugs. 

“Well then, look what we have here.” Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows at Enjolras, who is still standing at the other end of the room, and levels him with an unimpressed stare as he sips his tea.

“Right, okay, you’re all up,” Enjolras says uselessly, his brain very helpfully shutting down. “That’s wonderful, great, actually. I’m just going to—” 

“If you even think about turning around, I will literally tackle you to the floor,” Jehan says tiredly. 

It’s a lost cause and Enjolras knows it, so he trudges over to the table and sinks into a chair. Combeferre, at least, is nice enough to go put the kettle on and fetch him a cup of tea. The air is tense and uncomfortable, something heavy brewing just below the surface and threatening to erupt very soon. 

It starts with Courfeyrac, his brow furrowed and eyes seeming to search Enjolras for something until he says, “I’m very annoyed with you right now.” 

Enjolras fidgets, looking at the floor. “Oh.” 

“Oh?” Courfeyrac asks incredulously, his eyes widening. “ _Oh_? Enjolras, two of my friends have a massive fight in public, I find out you’ve been messing about with each the whole time, and I have _no_ idea what’s going on with you because my _best friend_ won’t tell me anything!” 

“Sorry.” Jehan extends a hand across the table towards Enjolras but he looks uncomfortably conflicted. “Everything was chaos after you left; I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. I only told Courf and Ferre because they were so worried. It was a bit of a shock, you know? Everyone was really confused.” 

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say – where he would begin or how he’d explain it. He looks at Courfeyrac and guilt settles heavy in his bones, weighing him down in his chair until he feels like he can’t physically move, and he wonders where it all went wrong in so many ways. He’s just so _tired_ as well; maybe if he could have a shower and a nap until lunchtime it would be easier to find the words that Courfeyrac needs, but that option isn’t actually an option at all. 

“It’s all a bit of a mess really,” Enjolras starts, his shoulders sagging on a defeated exhale. Courfeyrac’s expression doesn’t shift an inch, so Enjolras leans his elbows on the table and settles in for a long one. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen – for it all to get so fucked up and weird, you know?” 

“No, I don’t actually.” Courfeyrac looks down into his mug, trying to avoid Enjolras’ eye to hide the flash of hurt that he can’t keep off his face. 

Enjolras pulls his feet up onto the chair and rests his chin on his knees, chewing on the inside of his lip as he decides how to begin. Combeferre, appearing to read his mind, sets down a plate of extra buttery toast and a fresh cup of tea in front of him, before sitting back down in the chair next to Enjolras. 

“Why don’t you start at the beginning? It’ll be easiest that way – and we promise not to interrupt—” 

“But—” 

“No interruptions,” Combeferre repeats firmly, giving Courfeyrac a pointed look. After a second look from Jehan this time, Courfeyrac scrunches up his nose and eventually gives a nod of agreement. 

To say that Enjolras is nervous would be a tremendous understatement.

“Well I suppose the beginning is when Grantaire kissed me at the Christmas party.” 

“ _What?_ ” Courfeyrac slaps a hand over his mouth instantly, before mumbling a quiet, “sorry”. 

The tips of Enjolras’ ears are already burning and his stomach can’t stop somersaulting sporadically. He takes a bite of toast in the hopes of distracting the anxious feeling that hasn’t stopped gurgling unpleasantly right behind his bellybutton since he stepped through the door. 

“It wasn’t a big deal, I guess, he was really drugged up and sort of just cornered me all of a sudden. And then of course he left straight afterwards, like he’d made a mistake or something, and I was so confused and embarrassed that I didn’t even consider telling you until I knew what was going on myself.” Enjolras clears his throat and finds Combeferre watching him passively, Courfeyrac chewing his non-existent fingernails, and Jehan licking at crumbs while he pretends not to be hanging on every word. 

Enjolras steels himself for the next part. “After that there was Christmas and Grantaire flat out told me that it didn’t mean a thing—he thought I’d be angry with him for the kiss, which is awful and just—then there was New Years which was even _worse_. Everyone had gone to bed and I was still really drunk, but I thought it’d be a good idea to go and kiss Grantaire, thinking it would actually solve something. Which is, um, well that’s how it all gets screwed up I guess. I told him I wanted him and he thought I just meant sex, and I’m a total fucking prat because I was too scared to tell him how deep I already was and I let him believe he was right. 

“And I never used to be like this—people don’t scare me out of getting what I want—that’s never happened before. So just, I don’t know, try to understand how terrifying this all was for me – for Grantaire to be under my skin so much that I was honest to god bricking it. I knew how disappointed the three of you would be; you’d have told me it was a horrible idea and I didn’t want to think about dealing with pity on top of everything else. I couldn’t tell Grantaire how I felt, so I knew I couldn’t tell you what we were doing either.”

Courfeyrac’s hand shoots across the table, landing in front of Enjolras with his fingers stretched out towards him. “You must know that we would never want you to feel bad about that, Enjolras. We love you so much, you absolute wankering knobhead. I don’t understand why you couldn’t trust us.”

Enjolras cringes, but he reaches out to take Courfeyrac’s hand and gives it a knuckle-crunching squeeze. “I’m so sorry I made you feel like that. I did trust you – I _do_ trust you. All of you.” 

“Keep going,” Jehan prompts softly, and Enjolras lets go of Courfeyrac’s hand to gulp down his rapidly cooling tea. 

“Yeah, so um, we just kept hooking up and doing stuff. He was wonderful about it every single time. He always tried to make it good for me and made sure I was alright, but I knew something was up. You know when you just get that niggling feeling that something isn’t right? I’d get that a lot when we were together because Grantaire was always trying to brush off me doing stuff—like, in return for him—um.” 

Combeferre is rolling his eyes next to him but Enjolras feels as though his face has entered the beetroot stage of mortification. Jehan barely manages to suppress a snort, but unsurprisingly he’s looking a little pink too. 

“So…what happened after that? Something happened, right?” Courfeyrac asks, and his annoyance seems to have melted away into something that more resembles concern. Enjolras almost wants to cry a tiny bit, just because his friends are so unconditionally wonderful to him even when he might not deserve it one hundred per cent.

“Jehan caught us kissing at Cosette’s house, so there’s that. But it probably all started to go tits up because I was getting more and more stupidly jealous. Grantaire didn’t like it, obviously.” 

“Is that why you two seemed a bit off when I saw you?” Jehan muses softly, his cheek propped up on his hand as he looks sleepily at Enjolras. “There was a dreadful amount of tension in that hallway, it was awful.” 

Enjolras shrugs, averting his eyes to the table instead. There’s this one thought that’s been irking him since Valentine’s Day, and even more so since the events of last night. “Am I a shit person for not wanting anyone else to be with Grantaire, when I couldn’t even tell him how I felt?” 

Jehan coos and comes dashing over to wrap Enjolras in a tight hug, his hair tickling Enjolras’ nose and filling his nostrils with a mix of cigarette smoke and coconut oil. _Finally_ , Enjolras thinks, his body going contentedly limp in Jehan’s arms. He didn’t realise how much he needed a hug until he got one, but it makes him feel so much lighter than he had when he first sat down. 

“Obviously that’s not the ideal thought process behind a relationship,” Combeferre says, running a hand through his sleep-rumpled hair. “But maybe you needed to feel that – sort of like a catalyst.” 

Courfeyrac nods along, his eyebrows furrowed together. “Yeah, exactly, like maybe that’s what you needed to realise how important your feelings for Grantaire were. Once you know you want someone exclusively it gets rid of a lot of confusion in how you want to define yourselves.” 

“Wise words,” Jehan says sagely, still standing behind Enjolras with his arms locked around his neck. It takes less than three seconds for Jehan to start laughing while he throws the crusts of Enjolras’ toast at Courfeyrac’s head. 

“So that whole thing yesterday,” Enjolras says tentatively. 

“Yes, the reason for this conversation, you might say.” 

Enjolras waves his hand vaguely in Courfeyrac’s direction and otherwise ignores him. “I was jealous of Fletch and then I felt bad about it. Like I don’t have a right to that—I didn’t have a right to claim Grantaire’s affection in that way—and I was so preoccupied with trying to fix _that_ when the girl at the Musain asked me about him, that I just completely word vomited and said the wrong thing.” 

Jehan straightens behind Enjolras and pats his head gently. Enjolras relaxes under the touch and sips at his tea while Jehan combs his fingers through his hair, carefully picking out the knots that must have come from last night. It’s almost a minute before he asks, “Am I right in thinking you two have had a proper talk then? I feel like you wouldn’t have told us all that so calmly if things were still up in the air.”

Enjolras nods, chewing on at the edge of his fingernail absently. “Yeah, we talked a bit. More of an emotional outburst if I’m honest though.” 

They definitely _did_ talk, but now Enjolras feels a sudden surge of anxiety bubble up. Did they talk enough? Do they really understand each other or are they still just skimming over the details because they want what’s easiest? He hadn’t thought that’s what was happening, but with a trio of concerned eyes boring into him he starts to wonder. 

“ _Enjolras_ , you have to make sure you’re both on the same page,” Jehan insists sternly, quick to sense the hesitation in his voice, and Enjolras can’t help but feel as though he’s being told off by a set of three particularly unconventional parents. 

He’s practically an adult—this is almost a little bit insulting, if he’s honest—and he tells them as much. Combeferre’s bark of laughter follows before Enjolras has even closed his mouth, his lips pressed into a petulant sulk, and Combeferre slaps his hand on his knee like it’s the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard.

“You are one of the most intelligent people I know, but you are definitely not an adult,” Combeferre says, laughing again when he clocks the offended expression on Enjolras’ face. “I saw you burn baked beans last week. You also shrunk half of your clothes last time you did you own laundry.” 

“You have cereal for dinner at least three times a week,” Courfeyrac pitches in, and Enjolras is _betrayed_. Courfeyrac is acting as if Enjolras doesn’t catch him eating cold pizza for breakfast on a very regular basis – so much so that Enjolras considers making a tally for it. 

“You know what – you are all awful, terrible friends and this is completely irrelevant and has nothing to do with the conversation!” Enjolras says moodily, forgetting how desperate he’d actually been to move onto a new topic of conversation in the first place. He is quite possibly a top idiot and deserves the gleeful smirk that slowly spreads across Jehan’s face. 

“So you’re boyfriends now, then?” Jehan asks as he sits back down next to Courfeyrac, the epitome of faux-casualness. 

Enjolras slouches even further down in his chair and rubs at his eyes. He’s tired and he _doesn’t know_. It’s not as if the universe can drastically right itself in one night, and he can’t just magic all his shit together because he and Grantaire had _one_ heart to heart. 

“I’m not sure, everything happened so quickly,” Enjolras says on a heavy exhale, still rubbing a little too hard at his eyes. He doesn’t see the others’ disappointment but he can hear it loud and clear in their exasperated groans. Enjolras focuses on the splotchy lights dancing across the backs of his eyelids instead. 

“Promise me you’ll talk about this?” Courfeyrac persists, and Enjolras wants nothing more than to continue slumping further down his seat until he hits the floor and hopefully slips right through it. 

A nap is calling his name, desperately. Maybe a quick hibernation even, just a solid stretch of hours spent wrapped in his fluffy duvet with some quiet music humming in the background. 

The thought of that is what has Enjolras pulling himself up again, straightening to drain the last bit of tea from his mug and look Courfeyrac in the eye with a hint of a smirk. “I promise I’ll have a very serious talk with Grantaire about what his intentions are, _mum_. Happy?” 

“Oh shut up, you prick. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t get hurt. God knows why, but I actually love you quite a lot, just in case you haven’t noticed.” Courfeyrac’s smile in return is small but powerful, and a burst of warmth surges through Enjolras in response, climbing up his spine and curling between his ribs.

Combeferre stands up and collects all of their mugs and dishes, piling them up next to the sink before he comes back to stand right next to Enjolras. He gives his hair a gentle ruffle, keeping his hand there when Enjolras leans into it without a second thought. 

“None of us want _either_ of you hurt.” Combeferre says, before he takes his hand away and gives Enjolras’ shoulders a squeeze instead. “Jehan’s off to library in a minute and you look knackered, so how about we go back to bed and you tell us all about your fruitful love life.” 

Jehan groans and throws himself at Courfeyrac’s side. “Ugh, don’t remind me. I really should get going though. This essay is literally ending my life.” 

“Oh really, it’s literally ending your life?” Enjolras snorts through a mouthful of toast.

Jehan narrows his eyes at Enjolras and points a finger in his direction. “If you had any idea of how little sleep I’ve been getting and how much coffee is permanently in my blood system, then you would know that yes, this essay is _literally_ destroying my mind, body, and soul.” 

“Don’t stress, you’ll be free as a bird after Tuesday. We’ll get everyone together and go out to get royally smashed,” Courfeyrac says comfortingly, smoothing down Jehan’s bed hair with his fingers before kissing the tip of his nose. “Now off you pop, and I’ll see you then.” 

Jehan heaves a sigh and pecks Courfeyrac on the mouth quickly, before jumping up and straightening his shirt – silk and covered in navy paisley. He’s wearing an old pair of Courfeyac’s green cords and they make him look even taller than usual, the too-short trouser legs rolled up above his ankles to show off a pair of tartan socks and dress shoes. 

Sometimes Enjolras thinks he’s used to Jehan’s fashion choices, but he reckons even in ten years time Jehan will waltz into a room and make Enjolras look him up and down with equal parts confusion and fascination. 

Jehan works his way around the table, first kissing the top of Combeferre’s head before coming up behind Enjolras to engulf him in a hug that resembles a headlock more than anything. Enjolras gets his kiss just behind his ear – a loud smack of Jehan’s lips that has him squirming against Jehan’s death grip.

Jehan just holds him tighter, practically cutting off Enjolras’ air supply. “I’m so proud of you, babe. So proud of you.” 

Enjolras barely manages to wheeze out a goodbye once Jehan has detached himself, dashing out of the room before Enjolras’ windpipe has righted itself. 

He hadn’t particularly thought there was anything to be proud of, but now Jehan mentions it, he does feel quite pleased with himself. He put his heart on the line and didn’t get it pulverised. He got Grantaire, actually. 

“Shall we go to my room? I’m sure Enjolras’ bum is in dire need of a cushion right now.” Courfeyrac winks at him before standing up. It takes Enjolras a few seconds of frowning in sleepy confusion before his brain catches up, but Combeferre is already snickering behind his hand. 

“ _Excuse_ me, how do you—” 

Courfeyrac waves a hand in the air, saying, “Enjolras, I am a man of many talents and knowing that you had a dick in your arse last night is just one of them.” 

Enjolras is sure he’s blushed more in the past few months than the rest of his life put together. Ignoring the heat in his cheeks, Enjolras crosses his arms and stomps out of the kitchen with his chin raised and the remnants of his dignity. “Just for that, I’m giving you absolutely none of the details.” 

He’s at the foot of the stairs but he still hears Courfeyrac’s mildly horrified gasp and Combeferre letting loose a howl of laughter. Enjolras forgets all about the knot in his stomach that had come from this morning and he lets himself get swept into Courfeyrac’s bed instead. 

 

\--

  

A few hours later, and in the comfort of his own bed, Enjolras wakes up from a nap to rain trickling down his window and a new message.

_[Grantaire:] fancy a walk later? I’m going to the Hayward gallery if you wanna meet me in central_

Already cocooned in his duvet, Enjolras pulls the charger out of his phone and slinks further down the bed until the sheets are covering his head. He squints at the text and lets his toes curl in quiet excitement, thankful that nobody can see him grinning at his phone like an absolute tosser. 

He texts Grantaire back after a few more minutes of giddy dozing in bed, arranging to meet him near Southbank in a hour. With dreary daylight filtering into his room, Enjolras thinks about the wake-up kiss that he never got. He plans on getting it soon though, and maybe a bit more. 

 

Enjolras is hardly even halfway across Waterloo Bridge when he spots Grantaire at the other end. 

His hair is hidden underneath a beanie but Enjolras still recognises the fishtail parka and scuffed up boots in an instant, Grantaire fidgeting restlessly whilst he peers over the wall at the murky water below. 

An involuntary smile tugs at Enjolras lips as he draws closer, and he presses his lips together before it can grow too wide, his eyes glued to the wind whipping Grantaire’s hair around his face. Enjolras shoves his hands in his pockets and lets himself remember how Grantaire had looked leaning above him last night, the heated positively giddy way he’d watched Enjolras fall apart with every touch.

Enjolras shakes off the shiver that shoots up his spine, his cheeks going hot at the memory. It’s probably not the best time to think about that; he actually needs to be in control of all his faculties for the conversation that they’re inevitably going to have. Although that doesn’t mean he can stop himself from feeling slightly flustered when Grantaire finally turns his head and sees him approaching, an easy grin breaking out across his face. Relief floods through Enjolras and the tension that had his body feeling stiff and taut seeps away.

Once he reaches Grantaire, no more than two feet of distance between them, Enjolras is painfully aware that he has no idea what to do or what to say. All of a sudden his limbs feel out of place, arms awkwardly hanging by his sides and legs too gangly and long, and there’s a flurry of unfamiliar anxiety crawling up his throat. 

“Hi.” Enjolras cringes, his voice managing to break halfway through the one word he utters. 

“Hello again,” Grantaire says, and he seems to be handling this much better, his mouth twitching at the corner as if he’s reining in an inappropriate laugh. 

Enjolras moves, about to go for a hug before he second guesses himself and aborts the gesture, his arms falling to his sides uncomfortably once more. He has no idea where he stands right now, feels like what they have is at its most fragile following this morning, and he’s terrified of doing anything to upset its precarious balance. 

“So this is awkward,” Grantaire starts, and Enjolras frowns, ready to protest just because it’s in his nature, but Grantaire knocks their elbows together with a small smile and continues speaking. “Don’t lie, it is. But that’s okay, honestly.” 

“Yeah?” 

Grantaire looks at Enjolras for a moment before ducking his head away, hair flopping into his eyes. “Well yeah, we had really good sex but we also spilled our guts to each other and cried a bit. And well, this morning happened. I think it’s allowed to be awkward, don’t you?” 

Enjolras pretends to consider it. “I suppose, I’m not really an expert though.” 

Grantaire snorts and looks down the river, the horizon nothing but a grey blur of fog. “Do you want to walk down Southbank, maybe up towards the wheel?” 

“I don’t mind, whatever you want.” 

Grantaire looks at him for a second too long, but whatever he’s thinking stays locked up in his mind as they walk down the steps of the bridge and turn right. He doesn’t say anything else but Enjolras knows it’s coming; Grantaire isn’t exactly famed for holding his tongue.

“You’re being weird,” he says eventually, and he turns his pout towards Enjolras. 

Enjolras tries to keep a straight face but Grantaire is just too much – too endearing, too confusing, too mesmerizing. “Am I?” 

“You know you are,” Grantaire says, narrowing his eyes, and he gives Enjolras a shove. “Dick.” 

Enjolras can’t help it – the laughter bubbles right out of his chest and spills from his mouth, and nothing is funny but he feels like there’s a pair of balloons expanding behind his sternum when he looks at Grantaire. “I’m sorry—I’m just—I don’t even know. I’m glad you’re here. With me.” 

Grantaire stops pretending to be annoyed and practically deflates, as if the tension he’d been harbouring rushes out in one go. His eyes light up, almost crinkling with the size of his smile, and he wraps his arms around himself and looks away again. 

“Um, I’m glad I’m here too. And I’m glad you came – I sort of thought you wouldn’t after this morning and all that. Sorry, by the way, for being such a mess all the time.” 

“It’s fine, we don’t have to talk about that right now.” 

Grantaire looks at him dubiously. Enjolras shrugs, nothing else to say, because it’s true. It’s an issue, obviously, but he doesn’t think it’s the most important one right now. Grantaire is an addict and he knows that; he’s known it since day one and he’s still here. 

“But we probably should,” Grantaire says, and an incredible amount of self restraint goes into Enjolras stopping himself from clamping his palm over Grantaire’s mouth. “Because if you’ve changed your mind after seeing me like that, I won’t be offended or anything. I’d understand—I completely do—it’s not romantic to watch someone wake up in a total state.” 

“Can I hold your hand?” 

“Er – what?” 

Enjolras flexes his fingers inside of his coat pocket. He’d been staring at Grantaire’s hand the entire time and does not care about anything he just said. He just wants this one simple thing – this nice gesture that’s meant to be something easy. He wants it to be easy for once. 

“You have a heroin problem and you wake up in withdrawal. I’m not an idiot, I _know_ that. You really think it hasn’t once crossed my mind?” Enjolras keeps staring at Grantaire’s hand as they walk, too nervous to look him in the eye now. Enjolras _hates_ that – hates that Grantaire can reduce him to this bumbling, unsure wreck out of nowhere. “There’s a lot of things about the way you act that I don’t like or don’t particularly approve of, but the point is, those things are yours. And they haven’t stopped me from being in—” Enjolras’ mouth clamps shut and he feels like his eyeballs might be about to pop out of his skull. 

He did _not_ almost say that – it was a confused slip of the tongue. _Holy fucking shit though_. Grantaire notices the sudden pause and gives him a funny look, as if he can’t work out what’s going on. Enjolras inhales and exhales, willing his heartbeat to slow down as he jumps back into the conversation, pushing the whole thing to the _very_ deep and dark recesses of his mind. 

“—Um, those things haven’t stopped the way I feel about you. You piss me off at least twice a day but I still get dizzy thinking about how much I want to hold your hand or kiss you senseless.”

Grantaire sighs and slows down, their feet dragging on the pavement at a snail’s pace. “I’m just not sure you know what you’re getting yourself into. I’m a fucking handful, to say the least. I’ve got enough baggage for an entire lifetime and then some – I’m not some magic happily ever after,” Grantaire says tightly, staring hard at the ground as he stuffs his hands in his pockets again and chews on his lip. “Sometimes two people can like each other and it’s just not enough. We’re like polar opposites; literally everyone always jokes about how terrible we’d be together.”

“And you don’t want to prove them wrong? You don’t even want to _try_?” The hurt is plain in Enjolras’ voice, seeping through despite his efforts to hide it. 

Grantaire lifts one shoulder and hunches in on himself, mumbling something that Enjolras doesn’t catch. 

“What?” 

“I said I do. It’s just complicated, isn’t it?” Grantaire says with a grimace. 

Enjolras holds his hand out, palm upwards, and looks expectantly at Grantaire. “Well let’s start with the easy stuff then.” 

“I have no idea what you want me to do—” 

Enjolras huffs in frustration and shakes his hand in front of Grantaire, quickly huffing out, “Hold my fucking hand, you wanker.” 

After a stressful five seconds wherein Grantaire does nothing but grow increasingly red, he takes Enjolras’ hand with a sheepish curve to his lips, his bright eyes making the sky seem even greyer in comparison. “Alright, I’ll hold your sodding hand then. You’re always so bloody bossy, aren’t you?”

They start walking again and Enjolras spends half the time trying to hide a positively goofy face of joy in the collar of his coat, and the other half appreciating the comfortable silence between them. With every step he focuses a little bit more on where their skin meets: fingers interlocked and brushing at all points, Enjolras’ thumb tucked under Grantaire’s, a blanket of warmth cocooned between their palms. 

“Courfeyrac says we should talk about what we both want, not the things that are in the way,” Enjolras says eventually. They’re almost underneath the London Eye. Grantaire doesn’t spare it a second glance.

“Courfeyrac says a lot of things,” he mumbles quietly. 

“Combeferre agrees with him.” 

Grantaire heaves out a sigh and bumps his shoulder against Enjolras’. “Yeah, Bahorel said the same thing this morning. Jehan’s been hinting it since Cosette’s house, actually.” 

“We probably should though.” Enjolras says, and even to his own ears his voice sounds unfamiliarly careful. “Because like, I’ve got no idea what I’m doing here. So.” Only careful doesn’t even begin to describe how he feels. It’s a fraction of the fear that has settled like lead in his bones, sickeningly wary of every slightest thing, of anything that could snap them apart for good before they can glue it all back together. 

Grantaire comes to a halt and turns inwards to face Enjolras, their hands still clasped together. “Look, I _really_ like you and I want this to work. I have no idea how, but I’ll give it my best fucking shot if you want that as well. Because I do, I really do. But I need you to be sure.” 

Enjolras smiles, his fingers twitching. “I am sure.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

“Okay. Fine.” Grantaire is smiling back at him, eyes practically shining with it, and Enjolras feels like his skin is about to burst apart at the seams with how much he’s holding in. 

They look ridiculous; standing there on the riverbank in the middle of the pavement, saying all the things they can’t through a pair of matching grins and fingers holding on to each other so tightly that Enjolras feels like his bones might crack. They probably could. He’s been feeling like his ribcage might collapse in on him for months now, but with Grantaire clinging to him like an iron vice he feels anchored. He feels safe. 

Enjolras brings their hands up and presses Grantaire’s knuckles to his mouth, lingering there for a moment before he brushes a kiss on each one individually.

“Are you going to be this soppy all the time?” Grantaire asks with a laugh, but his voice sounds a touch watery and he’s looking at Enjolras like he’s the best thing he’s ever seen. 

Enjolras hums against their hands and shuffles forwards a step. “I think I might be.” 

“Good.” Grantaire kicks at Enjolras’ shoe and he’s probably angling for a kiss, but Enjolras’ cheeks are aching from how hard he’s been smiling this entire time and it’s beyond wonderful. “Feel like kissing me any time soon, then? I’m getting impatient over here—” 

Enjolras nips at his mouth for that, but Grantaire’s little quip is already forgotten in the grin that he presses into Enjolras’ lips. They stay close, hands still entwined while Grantaire tips his chin up and squeezes Enjolras’ fingers with a contented hum vibrating through his chest. They kiss slowly, lips chapped from the icy February wind, and they’re gentle with each other in a way they’ve never allowed themselves to be.

It’s nothing but a moment; brief yet completely unending in the way they share hot breath and feel the tickle of eyelashes on their cheeks. It’s like kissing Grantaire for the first time all over again, and Enjolras knows if he opened his eyes he’d find nothing but tunnel vision for the boy resting his other hand on his chest, fingers flexing over the space where his heart is pounding wildly. 

“Let’s go somewhere,” Grantaire says eventually, his nose carving a cold line down Enjolras’ cheek. “I know some good food places.” 

Enjolras nods, finds that it’s all he can do right now, and lets Grantaire lead him through the city in ways that he’s never seen before. 

 

\--

 

Tuesday evening finds Enjolras in the backroom of the Musain, just as expected. He’s leaning against the jukebox with his phone out, his thumbs hovering over a text he was in the middle of writing for his mum, but at some point he got distracted.

Grantaire is sitting in the armchair again, his boots kicked off to the side while he props his socked feet up on a low table. His hair looks shinier than usual, and softer too, the extra springy curls bouncing around his face with every movement he makes. Enjolras can’t hear what Feuilly is whispering to him, but he watches the way Grantaire ducks his head closer to his sketchbook, the corners of his mouth turning up coyly.

No announcement has been made about the new developments in Enjolras and Grantaire’s relationship, but it’s clear to everyone else that whatever happened on Saturday night has been sorted out. As soon as he’d sat down, Grantaire had very casually informed the others that they needn’t gawk or tiptoe around Enjolras or himself because absolutely nothing is the matter and there’s no point in gossiping about it. Enjolras had mouthed a grateful _thank you_ to him afterwards, and that was that, apparently. 

Enjolras gives up all pretence of still being focused on texting and allows himself to stare at Grantaire swimming in a knitted jumper that’s too big for him – one with colours so horrific that it could only belong to Bahorel. Enjolras really hopes his face isn’t doing something terrible, but he ends up being saved by Joly and Bossuet coming down the stairs with a clatter.

Clutching onto a tray with a pot of tea and a couple of dinky cups, Joly heads over to sit with Grantaire, Bossuet trailing close after him with both of their coats and scarves. 

“You look good today, Grantaire,” Joly says with a bright smile. 

Bossuet has an identical smile on his face. “Yeah, you’re like glowing and shit.”

“Maybe he finally got knocked up,” Feuilly snickers, and Bahorel’s laughter bounces loudly off every wall.

“All of you can fuck off,” Grantaire says easily, his mouth quirked at the corner. “I’m radiant every single day, I’ll have you know.” 

Éponine makes an offended sound and goes limp in her chair, tongue lolling out of her mouth as she pretends to die. Cosette snorts behind her hand and tries to hide a cackle by coughing purposely, only doesn’t quite manage it. 

“No, they’re right. Something does look different about you,” Marius says, his chin propped up in his hand as he tilts his head to consider Grantaire some more. He’s smiling curiously, eyes soft and bright, and Grantaire squirms under the attention. “I think something good happened. That’s the face you make when you’re all fuzzy and melty inside.” 

Grantaire’s eyes widen and his face instantly goes pink, and Enjolras has to clap a hand over his own mouth to stop from laughing. The others are all cooing now, while Grantaire looks stricken and drags his hands down his face and sinks into the armchair like he hopes it might swallow him whole. 

“I do _not_ have any such face, thank you very much, _Marius_. And I also do not have the emotional capacities that facilitate the same kind of weird puppy emotions that you experience. God, do you even know me?” 

Grantaire sits up and shoots Marius an exaggerated look of betrayal, his hand clutching his chest, but his eyes flicker to Enjolras for less than a second, his cheeks still flushed. 

Marius titters to himself and continues looking at Grantaire in amusement. “Whatever you say. I’m sure it’s just a trick of the light, or something.” 

“Yes,” Grantaire says firmly, but as he catches Enjolras’ eye again he seems to lose his train of thought, distractedly mumbling, “or something.”

Courfeyrac sees—of course he does—and can’t seem to control himself now that he knows all the details. Instead of smirking knowingly at Enjolras like he usually would, he lets out a high-pitched wail and practically throws himself at Combeferre, burying his face in his chest as he continues to make strangled noises. 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and flops into the space on Combeferre’s other side, hoping nobody asks.

“Alright there, Courf?” Grantaire says. 

No such luck, then. 

Courfeyrac makes no actual effort to move, instead muffling something unintelligible into the material of Combeferre’s shirt. Enjolras doesn’t want to do anything to draw attention to them, worrying that it might prompt even more questions, but it’s hard to ignore Combeferre’s creepy grin – his lips pressed together and stretched wide. 

“Thank bloody fuck, I can’t believe I got that essay in!” Jehan shouts from the bottom of the stairs. Enjolras relaxes as everyone turns their attention to him instead, all asking Jehan how he’s feeling. 

“I knew you’d do it – I bet you’ll get a first and all,” Courfeyrac beams, and the proud look on his face seems to have Jehan stopping in his tracks for a few seconds, just so he can pull his shoulders up and bury his chin in his scarf to try and hide his face. 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” says Jehan’s muffled voice. He squeezes himself in beside Cosette on the loveseat and she wraps an arm around him reassuringly. “Cosette Fauchelevent! Is that a nose ring I see?” 

Cosette shoves him off playfully, saying, “Nice diversion tactic, thank you very much, Jean.” 

Jehan shrugs, seemingly content with the instant change of topic. Enjolras leans forwards to peek at Cosette, and sure enough there’s a silver ring on one side of her nose. 

“First the tattoo, now this! Careful, people might start to think you’re rebelling.” 

“Put a sock in it, Grantaire,” Éponine says before throwing a soggy coaster at him. “It’s cool, innit? I went with her to get it and the piercer wouldn’t stop flirting with her. Proper creepy, wasn’t it?” 

Cosette pulls a face and gives a little shudder, Jehan chuckling into her shoulder. “Anyway, enough about me. I think _someone_ deserves their first celebratory drink right about now.” 

Grantaire’s lazy smile turns into a smirk and he pulls himself to his feet. “I’m sure I can talk Musichetta into a G&T on the house.” Next to him, Joly and Bossuet are one step away from scoffing in unison, but Grantaire takes no mind and weaves his way out of the maze of chairs and tables anyway. 

Bahorel starts telling everyone about a couple guys he met the other night, and Enjolras takes the opportunity to slip away as surreptitiously as he can manage. He intercepts Grantaire as he’s approaching the stairs, Enjolras coming from the other direction just in time to grab his elbow and stop him. Grantaire stops, looking vaguely confused, and Enjolras feels the flickering beginnings of butterflies. 

“Can I talk to you for a second?” 

Grantaire shifts the weight of his feet and raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know, can you?” 

Enjolras glowers at him and forgets approximately everything he’d planned on saying, now too busy wondering why he’s talking to Grantaire at all. Of course that doesn’t last long because Grantaire’s curiosity gets the better of him and he gives Enjolras a subtle kick in the foot along with an exasperated sigh. 

“Go on then, but I mean—now?” Grantaire’s eyes flicker over to their friends before glancing down at the hand still on his elbow, but Enjolras doesn’t dare look, just listens to the sound of their loud chatter and takes that to mean they’re all much too preoccupied to be eavesdropping. 

“It’s important.” 

Grantaire’s looks up at him then, his eyes alert and focused on Enjolras. Who _still_ can’t remember what he was going to say and is currently staring at Grantaire like an idiot with his mouth half open. 

“Enjolras, would you spit it out already? You’re making me nervous,” Grantaire hisses, going for sarcastic but coming up short when the accompanying laughter really is nervous. 

Enjolras drops Grantaire’s elbow and lets his arms hang by his sides, both of his hands curling up into fists. It’s just a question; it’s just a question about a _word_ — 

“What do I call you?” Enjolras says quickly, and he ends up looking rather taken aback at himself, as if he’s just spoken without meaning to. 

Grantaire looks equally as shocked for a few painfully long seconds, before his eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline and he’s laughing like he can’t believe it. “Um, well my name hasn’t stopped being Grantaire since you last saw me. So that’s—that’s fine?” 

Enjolras is equal parts annoyed and endeared at Grantaire for not quite grasping what he meant, and he supposes that in itself is evidence enough of how gone for him he is. A few months ago he would definitely have been nothing but one hundred per cent annoyed. It’s character development, he thinks, as he kicks Grantaire back and tries to shush the butterflies that are well and truly present. 

“I _meant_ do I call you my boyfriend?” Enjolras isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but it’s not for Grantaire’s face to pale and his mouth to open around a response that he can’t seem to get out. “Oh.”

“No, fuck, wait—” Grantaire stutters, and this time he’s the one grabbing Enjolras’ elbow as he takes a step closer. “It’s not that I don’t want to, exactly, it’s just. Well it won’t make sense if I explain—” 

“You could try,” Enjolras says with a pout, and he tries not to feel too put out when Grantaire actually looks genuinely scared, as though Enjolras has just held a gun to his head. 

Grantaire nods, his eyebrows pulling together as he frowns at his feet. “I’m not good at this. When I said I wanted to be with you I meant it, but we said we’d _try_ , right? Look, this has nothing to do with you and it doesn’t mean I like you any less but I need to do this one step at a time.” 

“I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me,” Enjolras says gently, swallowing the urge to push back Grantaire’s hair and fit his fingers around his jaw. 

Grantaire lets go of Enjolras to pull the sleeves of his jumper down over his hands, and he looks down at the floor again. “I want it to just be the two of us, but if we jump into this slapping the word boyfriend on it then I guarantee it’s doomed from the start. I just want to do this gradually, okay?” 

“Grantaire, we’re not—”

He looks up, a pained quirk to his lips doing nothing to distract Enjolras from vulnerability in his eyes, his face creased in a silent plea. “I have a horrible history with relationships, in that they crash and burn pretty instantly, or just fizzle out in a pretty depressing fashion. _God_ , they weren’t even fucking relationships—I just—I don’t know if I can be someone’s boyfriend.” 

Enjolras shoves his hands in his pockets, the temptation to reach out and touch Grantaire too strong now. He glances sideways and bites the inside of his cheek roughly, willing the heavy dread settling in his chest to go away. “So what does that mean?”

“I don’t know, we’re seeing each other? I don’t want to see anyone else but…” 

“But what?” 

Grantaire hesitates, his voice barely above a whisper when he says, “I don’t want you to be tied down to me straight away. I want you to have an out without feeling obligated to spare my feelings.” 

“That’s not going to happen,” Enjolras says sharply, and he feels more than a tad stung by the assumption. 

“You don’t know that – you don’t know what it might be like!” Grantaire mutters, taking another step closer until they’re toe-to-toe. When he finally looks Enjolras in the eye again he looks desperate, as if he’s pleading with Enjolras for his life. “Please. _Please_ do this for me. I’m not saying it’ll always be like this – just for now.” 

Enjolras doesn’t know what to do – he’s sure that Grantaire has even more reasoning locked up inside his head, but he probably won’t get to the bottom of it even if Grantaire _were_ to tell him. Grantaire looks frantic, and he doesn’t get that way about just anything, and in truth it frightens Enjolras a little. It’s hard to imagine what could possibly have Grantaire feeling so strongly about this, to the extent that he needs _Enjolras_ to have an easy escape. 

He tries not to think that agreeing to this might doom them all the same. He’s doing it for Grantaire’s comfort, so that they can move forward at a pace that works for them. He reminds himself that Grantaire has a whole host of personal issues that he keeps close to his chest, and this is undoubtedly a part of that hidden spider’s web. He just hopes Grantaire will keep letting him in, even if it’s only bit-by-bit.

Enjolras sighs, shutting his eyes as he nods. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire breathes, and he squeezes Enjolras’ bicep just once. He doesn’t take his hand away. 

Enjolras opens his eyes, his vision filling with the image of a very relieved Grantaire and a hopeful smile on his face. It’s near impossible to think he might have made the wrong decision, and he can’t help but smile back. “Can we tell the others though?” 

Grantaire breaks out into a real grin at that, his fingers slipping down Enjolras’ arm to wrap around his wrist instead. “Please, who else is going to believe I’ve bagged the fittest boy in London?” 

“Shut up.” Enjolras wiggles his hand until he manages to slot his fingers between Grantaire’s. His heart is thumping against his ribcage, picking up speed every second longer he looks at Grantaire. 

“Going to let me get that drink now? Jehan’s waiting.” 

“Jehan can get his own bloody drink,” Enjolras murmurs, already leaning in to kiss Grantaire. The tail end of his sentence ends up pressed against Grantaire’s mouth, but Enjolras couldn’t care less when Grantaire is smiling and kissing him back. So much so, that he hardly notices the silence that descends upon them. 

It’s only once they separate and Grantaire looks like he’s about to start cackling hysterically that Enjolras turns towards their group of friends, finding every single one staring back at him with a ridiculous expression. Courfeyrac looks like he might burst from joy, Éponine has a wry smile but her eyebrows are sky high, while Joly and Bossuet are both gaping wide enough to catch flies.

It’s Cosette who breaks the silence, her eyes lighting up as she throws her hands in the air and groans, “For fuck’s sake, _finally_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiiiii, sorry about still making you wait ages between chapters, my life has sort of exploded since going to uni and i've never been great at managing my time so no surprise there hah. anyway i'm not done with you yet - can't shake me off that easy! come say hi on [tumblr](http://hufflepufffharry.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/hellavicky) in the mean time :-)
> 
> there's also some new stuff in the [junkies au tag](http://hufflepufffharry.tumblr.com/tagged/junkies-au) on my blog - gorg fanart of last chapter from growltaire and some wips for an upcoming comic by tumblr user patroclvs ahhh, also some tidbits from me there too. go explore pals


	18. fumbling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the morning-after and a serious affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the start of this chapter follows on from the end of the last, so please remind yourself of the last section of that if you need to!

It’s barely eight am, a headache is steadily beginning to throb behind Enjolras’ eyeballs, and somebody is climbing in through his window. Enjolras rolls over and pulls the duvet over his face. 

If it’s a burglar, he’s fucked.

Thankfully it’s Grantaire that hops down from Enjolras’ desk—probably getting his dirty socks all over his work—and shuts the window behind him. He’s quiet as he crosses the room and slips into bed, curling around his back and nudging his knees up behind Enjolras’. His face is pressed into the space between Enjolras’ shoulder blades and he was at least polite enough to take his socks off before getting in, but now there are freezing cold toes pressed right up against his ankles.

“You’re like ice,” Enjolras mumbles, still mostly asleep. 

Grantaire doesn’t move an inch either, his mouth squashed against Enjolras’ bare skin. “Well that’s too bad. I feel terrible and I want a cuddle.” 

Enjolras whines in his throat and squeezes his eyes shut even tighter. They’d gotten in at close to six this morning and his entire body _aches_ with exhaustion. Grantaire had heard about a big warehouse party and knew someone who was able to get their entire group in, and egged on by Jehan’s reason to celebrate they all went harder than they probably should have on a week night. Enjolras’ eardrums are shot to hell and the soles of his feet feel bruised from dancing and walking all night. 

Well, mostly he’d just watched Grantaire dance and had stayed close to him. Grantaire, who had easily charmed his way into stealing countless drinks from strangers and swallowed a bomb of off-white powder in the smoking area outside when they first arrived. He was buzzing out his mind the entire night, unable to stand still for even a second and gripping Enjolras’ hand tight enough to bruise, but somehow he’d still seemed like himself. It was almost like a concentrated version of him – like ten Grantaires squashed into one body, his mouth always on the go and words coming even quicker than usual. 

For someone that’s only vaguely dabbled in a few tame drugs, Enjolras finds that he knows an awful lot about them. It didn’t start with Grantaire – Jehan has always been up for experimenting with knew things for as long as he’s known him, and Enjolras still remembers the first time Courfeyrac took ecstasy and had spent the entire night wiggling his fingers around and claiming he could feel all the electricity floating through the air. He remembers Jehan calling him during a shroom trip and how he was talking absolute rubbish but was convinced it was monumentally deep, while Combeferre had stomach cramps from laughing so hard.

Somewhere along the line, it’s become somewhat easy for Enjolras to suss out what Grantaire’s had most of, and since Feuilly had taken the same thing last night, he hadn’t felt the need to worry about it. In any case, Enjolras had much preferred it to the days when Grantaire is gloopy and dazed with smack, barely of any use to anyone. Last night though – that had been the very opposite. It was hours of Grantaire grinning from ear to ear while he danced as though nobody else mattered, and even when his head was dropped down and his damp hair was obscuring his face, people were turning to watch him as if he had his own gravitational pull. 

Enjolras smiles to himself at that, shuffling further back into Grantaire’s embrace as he remembers. 

He had felt extraordinary lucky to be the one that Grantaire was hanging off all night. He was always disappearing to flirt for ten seconds just for the sake of it, or to kiss Feuilly hard on the mouth with a laugh, or to pull Marius closer into the crowd and dance with him; but it was always Enjolras he came back to. It was Enjolras who got to wind his arms around Grantaire and bite down on the flesh just behind his ear, his tongue coming out to lick an obscene stripe down Grantaire’s skin, salty with sweat and completely worth it when Grantaire had tipped his head back and moaned. 

They might have engaged in a fair amount of PDA, but Enjolras will admit to nothing if questioned. Besides, what’s a honeymoon period if you can’t rub up against each other in clubs and make out obnoxiously? 

Grantaire shifts his head so that his cheek is pressed against Enjolras’ back instead. “Are you sleeping or thinking?” 

Enjolras finds Grantaire’s hand and covers it with his own, slotting their fingers together and resting them against his belly. “Thinking.” 

“About what?”

“You.” 

“Bollocks.” 

Grantaire smashes his face into Enjolras’ back again in a poor attempt to stop the smile that Enjolras can feel imprinted against his skin. His own eyes are still stubbornly closed, but he doesn’t even try to wipe off his pleased grin. “I’m serious, I’m thinking about how much you tortured me last night.” 

“You mean I didn’t fuck you into the mattress again,” Grantaire chuckles, his ribs shaking with it. “Insatiable little thing, aren’t you?” 

Enjolras kicks his heel back, hoping to get Grantaire in the shin. He misses by a mile but only because Grantaire is shuffling up the bed and throwing his leg over Enjolras’ thigh instead, until he can bury his face in Enjolras’ neck and nip it lightly with his teeth.

“Not insatiable – just think it’s rude that you kept me hard all night and wouldn’t do more than kiss me,” Enjolras grumbles, and he’s absolutely not going to be appeased by Grantaire’s lips pressing wet kisses up and down his neck. 

“Pretty sure I gave you a handjob in the bathroom,” Grantaire says, his voice laced with amusement. 

Enjolras frowns. “That doesn’t count.” 

Grantaire snorts but doesn’t comment.

And anyway, it really doesn’t count _at all_. They’d run past the toilet attendant to sneak into a stall together, Grantaire grinning ferociously and pouncing on Enjolras in an instant. With his back pressed against the door and the lock digging into his spine, Enjolras had let Grantaire kiss him into a frenzy, his mouth stinging with the force they put into it. Then Grantaire had abruptly wedged his thigh between Enjolras’ legs and nosed his way up Enjolras’ jaw, one hand tightly gripping his hair to tilt his head back and the other palming Enjolras roughly over his jeans. 

Five minutes later the attendant was banging on the door furiously, a stream of angry comments coming from him as they’d squeezed around him and bolted out of the bathroom. 

“You blue balled me to the highest extreme,” Enjolras grumbles, and he almost shudders at the memory of tight jeans and Grantaire running off cackling. “It wasn’t very nice of you.” 

Grantaire pinches his side and finally settles down, his chin hooked over Enjolras’ shoulder. “Just be thankful I didn’t let you come in your jeans – think how awful that would have been.” 

Enjolras mutters a few more quiet complaints but it’s half hearted at best, and they relax into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the wind whistling through the trees outside and the murmur of their breathing. It’s the first morning they’ve properly spent together, Enjolras realises, even if they didn’t actually spend the night in each other’s company. It’s close enough, and Enjolras thinks he could get used to cold and dreary mornings if it means being wrapped up in another body. 

There’s one thing that’s not quite right though, and it takes Enjolras a subdued five minutes to figure it out, the answer coming to him just as he thinks he’s about to fall asleep again.

“What are you doing?” Grantaire gripes, eyes still closed against the grey light leaking into the room as Enjolras turns around in his grasp.

“Turn over.”

“Enjolras, I was _comfortable_.”

Enjolras huffs and prods at Grantaire until he does as he says, eventually flopping onto his other side with a petulant frown and his arms crossed over his chest. Enjolras smiles to himself and shuffles up behind Grantaire, his knees slotting in behind his perfectly, leaving his face the perfect height to bury in the crown of Grantaire’s hair.

Enjolras breathes him in, getting a heady mix of last night’s cigarettes, fading cologne, and the slightest hint of turpentine. 

“You’re sniffing me,” Grantaire says flatly, but he doesn’t protest when Enjolras snakes his arm around him and pulls them flush together.

“You said you wanted a cuddle,” Enjolras replies, and his gives Grantaire a squeeze just to prove his point. 

Grantaire hums contentedly, the sound buzzing through his chest and against Enjolras’ flattened hand.

“Being two inches shorter than you doesn’t make me the little spoon,” Grantaire continues after a while, but he can’t mask the drowsiness in his voice. 

Enjolras has to go to work. His alarm will go off in little less than an hour and he still smells like a legally dubious rave. But then Grantaire makes a tiny sound, one that warms Enjolras all over and lets him think that Grantaire would rather be nowhere else in the world right now, and work is a distant and very inconvenient memory. 

“You’re definitely the little spoon,” Enjolras whispers, because this has officially become a Moment. Then, softly, he adds, “twat.” He’s got a reputation to uphold and Grantaire keeps going around ruining it. 

“Oi, _twat_ , we’ll see about that,” Grantaire says, all false sternness and annoyance.

“We absolutely will not. I’m big-spooning you for the rest of eternity and you can’t stop me, so you might as well stop pretending you don’t like it.” 

Grantaire cranes his neck at an awkward angle to give Enjolras a look – his eyes almost seem as though they’re sparkling and Enjolras definitely needs some more sleep. He’s just so giddy, and the way that Grantaire smiles at him sleepily doesn’t help one bit.

“When’s your shift?” Grantaire asks softly. 

Enjolras can’t resist kissing him, just a dry closed-mouthed peck, before he drops his head back onto the pillow and shuts his eyes. “In a couple of hours, I’m afraid. What about you?” 

“Not until after lunch, thank god.” Grantaire shifts again, moving back into a more comfortable position. “Do you think we could stay here? You know, just maybe nap a bit until you’ve got to get ready and everything.” 

A shaky, somewhat whale-like cry doesn’t quite make it out of Enjolras’ throat, but it’s a close thing, and he curls his toes tightly to tamp down any other embarrassing reactions, thanking Christ that he manages to answer evenly, “Absolutely, yes.” 

+-+-+ 

Enjolras arrives at the Musain with an hour to spare before the weekly meeting starts up. The weather is dire, and Enjolras tries to remember the last time he saw genuine sunlight as he shuffles inside and wipes his feet, the bell tinkling above him.

It’s not particularly busy yet, still too early in the evening for the nighttime crowd, but a few small groups are scattered in each corner and their quiet chatter bleeds into the soft music playing in the background. Enjolras scans the room for familiar faces, his eyes falling upon black hair and a leather jacket, legs crossed and clad in laddered tights.

Éponine is sitting on a stool at the bar, a full glass of red wine clutched in one hand as she leans in to hear Musichetta whisper something by her ear. It’s when she throws her head back in laughter that she catches sight of Enjolras, her smile turning a little more catlike as he heads towards her. 

“Alright, loverboy?” She smirks over the rim of a glass, her lipstick the same shade of rich burgundy as the wine.

Enjolras smiles as he unwinds his scarf, giving Musichetta a wave just as she turns to serve someone on the other end of the bar. He drags a stool closer to Éponine and hops up, shedding his gloves and coat while she continues to look at him shrewdly.

Once he’s finished peeling off layers and got his wallet out he eventually returns her stare, huffing out a wary, “ _What_?” 

“Baklava?”

“Um.” Enjolras looks blankly at the little card box that Éponine has shoved under his nose. When he shows no sign of finishing that sentence Éponine rolls her eyes and shakes the box, and Enjolras gets a whiff of something rich and sweet.

“My mum used to make them when I was a kid,” Éponine says as Enjolras flips the lid and takes one. She bites into another before going on, and Enjolras finds himself moaning a little as the syrupy pastry hits his tongue. “Good, innit? I remember her doing them in these massive trays, and the kitchen would smell amazing for the entire day. Used to sit on the floor in front of the oven until they were done, then she let me choose which shapes we cut them up into.” 

“Yeah?” 

Éponine nods, popping the rest of a baklava into her mouth with a shrug. “She stopped doing that a while ago, though.” 

Enjolras feels his heart twist at the way she says it so casually. She doesn’t have to say much for Enjolras to know what is implied, and he wonders if Éponine too finds it hard to reconcile the parents she lives with now, and the ones from a much warmer and affectionate childhood. 

“So where’d you get these from?” Enjolras asks, and Éponine’s gratitude for the change in subject is a silent understanding between them. 

“This Middle Eastern bakery near my estate, best baklavas in London if you ask me.” The wide smile on her face is genuine, her eyes brightening as she offers Enjolras another. “Been going there for years and the lady who runs it, Safa, is an absolute gem. Always said I remind her of her sister, reckon that’s why she’s constantly forcing free treats on me and Gavroche.” 

Enjolras smirks, knowing how much Éponine detests freebies and being made to feel like a charity case. “She sounds lovely, you must really like her.” 

“She’s alright,” Éponine says flippantly, scrunching up her nose. “You should come see me in Stockwell Park sometime. I’ll give you the grand tour.” 

Enjolras snorts and shifts towards the bar, beckoning one of the barmaids over with a nod. “Awfully tempting. Reckon I should set up shop there instead? Invest in some up and coming property?”

Éponine waits for Enjolras to order a coffee before punching him in the arm. “Don’t knock it, wanker. Brixton has a cultural and political history, what the fuck have you got exactly, Dalston boy?” 

“A load of hipster twats paying too much for the shithole?” 

“And you’re one of them so you can fuck right off,” Éponine says smugly, before taking a triumphant sip of wine. 

They chat for a while, Musichetta coming over to join them whenever the bar clears out or customers are slow. And it’s nice, nicer than Enjolras expects it to be – not because he and Éponine don’t get on, but because they rarely end up hanging out alone. Without the rest of the boys around she’s no less sharp or quick witted, but she does let her defences soften a little, letting Musichetta rib her and poking fun at Enjolras marginally less than usual.

Enjolras has just finished his second coffee when he realises that the topic of Grantaire hasn’t come up once. Obviously he jinxes it immediately, and the next time Éponine directs one of her calculating looks at him Grantaire’s name is slipping past her lips. 

“Grantaire won’t tell me anything about the two of you. Fancy spilling the beans?”

“Not particularly,” Enjolras answers lightly, just because he knows Éponine will get dramatic about it. 

“Well you’re absolutely no fun at all,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling. “It means he’s serious though,” she continues. “He tells me everything, even when I beg him not to I still end up with an in-depth report of everyone he’s ever fucked. But he never talks about shit that matters, you know? That’s how I know he’s in deep – apart from the obvious pining and general lovesickness.” 

Enjolras swallows thickly, a nervous itch creeping up his throat. “I’m serious about this too. He thinks I’m not, but I wouldn’t be bothering if I wasn’t one hundred per cent serious.” He looks away from Éponine and stares particularly hard at a sticky spot on the bar instead. “I don’t know how to make him understand how hard I’ve fallen for him, he just brushes it off like I’ll change my mind or something.” 

Éponine heaves a sigh and her eyes soften sympathetically. “That’s our Grantaire for you. Don’t take it personally, champ, he just doesn’t quite believe it when good things happen to him.” 

And well, doesn’t Enjolras know it.

“I’m happy for you, by the way.” Éponine adds, and she glares at Enjolras’ wide eyes, but her cheeks colour with a pink flush. “Shut up, I can be nice.” 

“Never suggested you couldn’t be,” Enjolras says calmly, but he can’t quite supress the quirk of his mouth. 

“Whatever. I’m just saying, I know that our friendship group is big and convoluted and loyalties to each other are all tangled up and there are tons of little factions within it, which makes it hard for us to give anyone the ‘hurt them and I’ll mess you up’ kind of talk. And we both know I’ve got a soft spot for Grantaire—god only knows why—but I’m not going to give you that talk right now.” Éponine pauses for a moment, watching Enjolras like he’s an open book and she’s trying to decide what to make of him before finishing her speech. “You’re both good people, but you’re different. I think you’ll be good for each other. You’ll be good for him. But be careful, yeah? I’m not sure either of you know it but you’ve got the power to hurt each other so much, the kind of hurt that doesn’t have to be intentional to really fuck someone up. Just, take it easy, alright?”

Enjolras nods, his throat dry and closed up with something that feels like dread and a sense of foreboding. 

“Um, thanks, I think,” Enjolras mumbles, his stomach slowly beginning to work itself into knots. But before he has time to really get worked up, Éponine is leaning over to ruffle up the front of his hair with a smile and a shrug. 

“No problem.” She stands up and straightens her t-shirt out, a greyish-black thing that looks worn and moth-eaten, before draining the last of her glass. “Think of it of advice from one love-struck idiot to another. You wanna head downstairs and start setting up?” 

Enjolras nods and finishes off his coffee, then grabs his things and makes to follow her towards the stairs. “So you’re still into Marius then?” 

Éponine looks over her shoulder darkly. “Unfortunately, yes. It doesn’t help that Cosette is a sweetheart and she’s somehow become one of my best friends. I’m hoping if I ignore it eventually a higher power will have pity on me and make it go away.” 

Enjolras throws an arm around her shoulders once they’ve descended the stairs, and he prods her chest with one finger. “The heart wants what the heart wants.” 

“ _And_ that’s about all we have time for here. Nice chatting with you Enjolras,” she says curtly, plucking Enjolras’ arm from around her before she goes striding off across the room, boots clunking against the wooden floor. 

It’s not long before the others gradually start to appear, and Enjolras sits on a table at the front of their set-up with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. It’s nice to watch regulars trickle in, ones whose names Enjolras knows and whose ideas he looks forwards to hearing each week. The ABC are aiming for bigger things now, and they need all the support they can drum up before asking any of the university societies for help.

Grantaire comes late and slinks in quietly with his head down while Courfeyrac is opening the meeting and going through a few bits of admin. He grabs a stool and somehow manages to squeeze his way through everyone to sit between Joly and Bossuet without any commotion, and just as he sits down and slips out of his coat he glances up at Enjolras and gives him a small smile. 

Enjolras smiles back, taking half a second to realise that Combeferre’s loud cough is very much aimed towards him, and more specifically, the silence that he is meant to filling right now.

“Sorry, um,” Enjolras says quickly, ignoring the smug expression on Grantaire’s face. “Last week we asked everyone what particular issue they’d like to see us focus on with regards to direct action. We’ve been having meetings for a few months now and I think we’re all agreed that it’s time we took a more active role, right?”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre nod on either side of him, and Enjolras waits for mutterings of agreement among the others to die down before he continues.

“The one that came up most from your votes at last week’s meeting and on the Facebook poll was the housing situation in London right now.”

“Or lack thereof,” Éponine scoffs. 

“Exactly,” Enjolras says, and when he looks at Éponine he’s all too aware that she knows better than anyone. 

The last Enjolras heard, Éponine has been working two jobs and any scraps she can do on the side. It’s definitely too many hours for a seventeen year old, judging by her scarcity in recent weeks and the grey pallor to her face, and it’s still nowhere near enough to get her out of her parents’ home. It’s hardly enough to get her and Gavroche by. 

“Council housing continues to be demolished in the areas where it’s most needed, and luxury apartment buildings are shooting up even faster. There’s a horrifying shortage of social housing in this country, but London in particular is suffering from government budget cuts and overdevelopment from private companies.” Enjolras picks up a plastic booklet filled with the most relevant sources he’s found, and tosses it onto the table in front of him. He shoots Grantaire a pointed look, daring him to throw a fit about reliable and precise sourcing this time. “A 60% cut to social housing is unacceptable. It’s nothing more than an attack on the working class.” 

“And not just the white, British-born working class. As much as some slimy politicians would like us to believe, the housing shortage is not going to be fixed by extremist immigration policies.” Combeferre leans back on the table behind him and crosses one ankle over the other. “Basic housing is not a privilege, and especially not one that is only afforded to a single nationality. We don’t care if your family have been Londoners for generations or you’re a migrant with a family; you deserve somewhere to live in this city.” 

Courfeyrac stands up straight and pushes the sleeves of his jumper up to his elbows. “Exactly, and you deserve somewhere that’s bloody liveable, not something that flagrantly disregards health regulations. There are countless mansions in London that spend the majority of the year completely empty, while students and migrants are living in closed off warehouses or disused office buildings that pose as a constant threat to their health. There are thousands of people _paying_ to be squatters while these second and third homes do nothing but gather dust.” 

Musichetta, who has been weaving through tables and chairs to collect empty glasses, puts down everything she’s carrying and stands with her hands on her hips, gold bracelets clinking together on her wrists. 

“No offence boys, but don’t you think this is all a bit rich coming from you?”

“What?” Enjolras frowns. 

Musichetta looks up at the ceiling for a moment. “Clearly I adore all three of you - Jehan as well - but you’re part of the problem. I’ve been living in Dalston my entire life and my family all grew up here too, but now I’m the only one who can still afford a place here.” Musichetta pauses to cast her eyes around the room. “The long and short of it is that half of the people at this meeting are white, and Dalston has always been a place with a huge immigrant presence. I’m not saying it’s your fault, but we don’t have that anymore. The community I grew up in didn’t have cafes charging four quid for a coffee, and rent for a shitty studio flat didn’t cost £300 a week.”

“You’re talking about gentrification,” Combeferre says; a statement rather than a question.

“Obviously,” Musichetta smiles. “Like I said, you lot mean well but it’s the social housing being demolished in ethnic minority areas that you should have a think about. I know you didn’t move here because you wanted to be cool, but let’s not fuck about. You’re young, middle class guys who give off a trendy vibe, and combine that with your artist friends—” 

“Oh alright, give it a rest darling,” Grantaire quips when Musichetta turns to him.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She points a finger at him and jokingly narrows her eyes. “Anyway, you’re the first step. Prices have already skyrocketed, the place has already changed, and next we’ll have mums who drive their kids to school in a fucking Range Rover. As soon as everything has been whitewashed it’s not cool anymore, so people move on to a new place and we’re left with a district we can’t afford.” 

Éponine makes a sound of distaste and kicks her feet up onto the stool in front of her. “I wonder what they’ll do when they’ve kicked us all out and there are only white people left in London. Think they’ll fight amongst themselves for someone to screw over?” 

There’s bitter laughter from a group of black and Pakistani boys sitting near her, and Enjolras thanks Musichetta for her input while discussion flares up amongst the group.

And it’s not like Enjolras even remotely thinks he knows everything or how to do it all in the right way. He likes the criticism, loves it when it’s as constructive as this, when it delves into the relative importance of issues he definitely knows facts about, but ultimately has no way of feeling victimised by. He wouldn’t even bother with the meetings if he thought he had all the answers and nothing else to learn. 

Combeferre runs a hand through his hair and frowns slightly. “Don’t get me wrong - I understand the issue of gentrification and why you feel victimised by it - but is there a particular line of fire that you’ve thought about taking? Because it’s this concept that has been going on for countless years and I’m not really sure we’ll ever be able to curb it.”

“Well nobody’s suggesting we try to eradicate it from society - that’s stupidly overambitious. But surely maintaining and building new social housing would start to balance the equation,” Enjolras says, speaking to nobody in particular as he taps a finger against his bottom lip, trying to think of solutions that aren’t so extremist that they’re unviable. 

“You’re missing the point,” Grantaire says around a yawn. “Poor areas with a majority of non-white ethnic groups are always going to be a hotbed for creativity. Cordelia and Marcus from Highgate aren’t just moving there because you can get a cheap kebab - they’ve heard it’s the next big thing for people who are better than everyone else. Artists move to be where the art scene is, and the trend-hoppers follow.” 

Enjolras has a comeback on the tip of his tongue but it stays put because Éponine unfolds her arms and smacks a hand on the table between her and Grantaire. 

“Both of you - shut the fuck up. We don’t even need to be talking about gentrification until you’ve sorted out the barefaced poverty that exists in London,” Éponine says firmly. “You’re right, we need more social housing instead of less. But what we need even more is for someone to have the slightest clue of how to fucking operate a council estate. Gavroche ain’t even thirteen yet and two of his mates are dead already - _killed_. Politicians have got second homes and maids looking after them while I share a bed with my baby brother in a room that’s got a rat infestation. Fix that.” 

Éponine flops back into her chair with dense silence sitting around them all. Grantaire squeezes her knee but says nothing, and for a moment nobody can speak because there aren’t any words. 

That’s what Enjolras’ job is. To break the tense moments and make it easier for everyone else. It doesn’t make it easier for him though.

“If you were talking to the prime minister right now – what would you ask for?” Enjolras directs at Éponine, sending her a smile that hopefully conveys as much gratitude as he feels. “What makes a better estate – is it money? Better security?”

“Trust me, security is not the issue,” Éponine sneers. “The government thinks they can rebuild everything and knock down the walkways and it’s all done and dusted, but we’re real people and we still get treated like subhuman criminals. They want to call us a sink estate – they’re the ones put who us here and left us to rot.” 

“So compassion, right?” Courfeyrac asks, his eyebrows furrowed. “You need council support that makes it feel like they’re assisting you, not monitoring you. You need a real community – with the trust and resources and compassion that facilities it.” 

“In a nutshell, yeah.” Éponine crosses her arms again, her chin jutted out defensively. 

Enjolras turns to the boys near her who had been laughing earlier. “What about you guys? Where are you from?”

“Between here and Newington,” one says. “The girls are right though – the government shouldn’t be building nothing until they sort out the estates they’ve got.”

His friend elbows him—Ashar, Enjolras thinks—and joins in. “They’ve gotta stop tearing council houses down and selling them off to build these fucking loaded high-rise buildings. My mum hates it – says she doesn’t even recognise Hackney anymore.” 

“This is good stuff—I mean obviously not good, but—” Courfeyrac says, grinning at Ashar and his friends, “how do you and Ade feel about taking on some big roles?”

Enjolras glances in Grantaire’s direction. He’s slumped forward with his elbows propped up on a rickety table in front of him, his chin resting in his palm while he circles the rim of a wine glass with one finger, seemingly entranced by the movement. 

Someone asks a question and Enjolras, rather distracted, hears that Joly is the one to respond but doesn’t really have a clue as to what he’s saying. It might be because can’t stop staring at the glazed face Grantaire’s got on, with his irises reduced to a dull, murky blue. 

It’s almost as if Grantaire’s blankness is contagious, as the longer Enjolras watches the further he feels from the voices surrounding him, as if he’s in a bubble with nothing but Grantaire blinking like his eyelids are sticking together. 

Out of nowhere, Grantaire snorts to himself and shakes his head, scaring Enjolras half out of his skin with the sudden movement. 

“Grantaire? Anything you’d like to add?” 

Grantaire looks at Enjolras warily. “Not particularly.” 

“Great, so let’s start getting our main points down so we can start writing a few things up.”

“Actually wait, I do have something to say,” Grantaire interrupts, now sitting up with a renewed vigour. 

“Really,” Enjolras says flatly, and he resists the urge to make a sour comment.

“We have the misfortune of living under a right-wing government for the next few years, and you honestly believe this is the most effective way to make your point?” 

“What is your issue exactly?" 

“Oh I don’t have a issue, but you do if you think the greedy pigs and entitled pricks who benefit from all this are actually going care a single bit about your protest.” 

“For once could you stop taking the piss and actually contribute something useful in an ABC meeting—”

“Okay lovebirds, save it for the bedroom!” Courfeyrac cuts in quickly, an uncomfortable amount of cheer in his voice as he shoves Enjolras out of the way and takes his place in the middle. “So! Brainstorming. In the meantime, Grantaire, you can doodle more comic strips where Enjolras has an offensively large head and JLo’s arse.”

Grantaire’s eyes widen and his cheeks instantly go pink. “Or I could stab you in the neck with this pen.” 

Courfeyrac just laughs airily and dismisses him with a flick of the hand, and just like that the meeting resumes as normal, and just like any other week Grantaire broods passive aggressively while Enjolras reminds himself not to grind his teeth. Apparently old habits die hard.

It’s not until they’ve finished hashing out some more ideas and thrown around suggestions for location and dates that the meeting ends, and even after that Enjolras and Grantaire haven’t said anything to each other. All through packing up and moving the furniture back they tactfully avoid crossing paths or making eye contact, and Enjolras wants to blame it on the distraction of all the people who stayed behind to talk more about being involved with the protest, but he can’t quite do it. In the end he makes himself more irritated at Grantaire for not coming over to interrupt him, which he usually has no problem doing. 

Enjolras absolutely does not want to fight with him today, but Grantaire always pushes his buttons and Enjolras is so quick to rise to it. So the longer Grantaire puts off the conversation they’re inevitably going to have—whatever that conversation _is_ —the more agitated Enjolras feels, his chest tightening with hot flares of it. 

By the time Grantaire catches up to him on the walk home, Enjolras’ jaw aches from tensing so hard, and at least Grantaire is perceptive enough to notice it. 

“You’re annoyed at me.”

Enjolras isn’t even going to respond to that – he thinks an indignant snort is quite expressive enough. 

Next to him, Combeferre and Courfeyrac slow down their strides to hang back just as Grantaire falls into step with Enjolras and matches his brisk pace. Enjolras stares straight ahead, and even though his peripheral vision tells him that Grantaire is watching his face for a reaction, he keeps up a blank expression of composure. 

“This is ridiculous, you know that, right?” Grantaire asks on half a laugh, but he doesn’t sound convinced. 

“What’s ridiculous is that you still find it perfectly fine to purposely undermine me in meetings, just for the fun of it,” Enjolras says coolly. 

Grantaire sighs heavily and probably gives a dramatic eye roll to go with it. Enjolras still won’t look at him. They turn a corner and Grantaire presses closer to his side. “My whole life doesn’t revolve around pissing you off – hard though that may be to understand. I do actually say things because I think they might be of use to at least _think_ about.” 

“Somehow your criticism never sounds that constructive. All you ever do is play devil’s advocate,” Enjolras says sharply, and he’s aware that he’s just taken this from casual bickering to Actual Fight territory. 

“How is it not constructive? You just get riled up because for once, somebody isn’t agreeing with every word that comes out of your mouth!”

“You know that’s not true!”

Grantaire rubs his eyes and drags his hands down his face. “Oh my god, it is though. I mean obviously you’ve met people with completely different political views, but that hardly counts. I’m talking about people who theoretically are on your side but don’t have their heads in the fucking clouds.” 

“I’m not going to apologise for wanting to make a difference – for actually trying to make things better for people,” Enjolras says stubbornly. 

“I’m not asking you to,” Grantaire sighs, and suddenly it sounds as though all the fight has drained out of him. “Nevermind, Enjolras.”

Grantaire puts his hands in his pockets and walks quickly to get ahead. Enjolras watches the slump of his shoulders and slows down half a step, just to preserve the few metres of distance between them.

It’s a fight they’ve been having since day one – they don’t need to keep having it. Yet here they are. 

“You two will work it out, don’t worry.” Combeferre gives Enjolras’ shoulder a reassuring squeeze and pulls him in close. “Go to his place and get it sorted out now, because this isn’t a fight worth having. We’ll invite the others to ours, okay?” 

Enjolras wraps his arm around Combeferre’s waist and nods. “Okay. I’m trying, you know?” 

“I know,” Combeferre says, and his understanding smile makes Enjolras’ hands feel a little less prickly. 

Enjolras has never been so unsure about anything in his life, and Combeferre knows that. He’s probably the only one who realises just how terrified Enjolras is about this whole thing with Grantaire. Courfeyrac knows, but he doesn’t _know_ ; he falls into flings and relationships easily, like it’s a fundamental part of his being to be wrapped up and intertwined with someone. He falls fast and all at once without thinking about how it might end, but Combeferre shares Enjolras’ hesitancy in opening up the contents of his heart and letting it lead the way. 

“A few drinks back at ours, lads?” Combeferre calls out as they round the corner of their street. 

“Yes! Wine and cheese night!” 

“Courf, please tell me you are not talking about the block of Tesco cheddar in the fridge,” Combeferre says.

“Can I just say that I am honestly offended right now – like I’m not even sure we can be friends anymore, actually. What do you have against a beautiful medium strength cheddar?” 

“I’m up for cheddar as long as you’ve got some Branston pickle,” Joly says from the back, prompting a chorus of retching noises. 

“I love you but that is literally disgusting,” Bossuet laughs. “I’ve never even seen you eat pickle!” 

Enjolras looks over his shoulder and sees Joly pouting at the rest of them, his elbow jabbing into Bossuet’s side. “My mum always makes me cheese and pickle sandwiches. They’re never as good when I make them.”

“Anyway, stop calling the group lads!” Cosette shouts moodily to Combeferre at the front. 

“Yeah – not all of us are twats like you,” Éponine says scathingly. “We’ll get Cosette’s feminism society on your back if you don’t start treating us with some well deserved respect!” 

“And just for that unfair threat I’m going to rename the group chat as ‘Top Lads Only’,” Courfeyrac replies. 

Enjolras snorts a little, even though he’s only half listening as he watches Grantaire walk ahead of him. 

“Éponine is kind of a lad though, isn’t she?” 

“ _Marius_!” Cosette screeches, and Marius’ muffled yelp shortly follows after. 

“What does that even _mean_?” Éponine asks, “Just because I allow you to do stupid shit and can outdrink all of you does not make me a lad. Do you all just think I’m one of the boys? Really?”

Grantaire has nearly reached the wall between their houses so Enjolras jogs ahead to catch him up, the others too engrossed with their conversation to notice, or just too polite to comment. 

“Can we talk? Everyone will be at our house for a bit,” Enjolras says quietly over Grantaire’s shoulder. 

Grantaire shrugs and says nothing in return, but he heads up the path towards his own door and leaves it open once he’s stepped inside.

Enjolras watches Grantaire toe his boots off while doing the same, and follows him into the living room silently. The air is tense between them, chocked full of unsaid words and trepidation.

Grantaire sits down in the middle of the sofa and looks up at Enjolras like a teenager about to get a bollocking, who doesn’t quite care. Enjolras stays standing, but far enough away to prevent him from towering over Grantaire’s figure. He doesn’t actually want to be here anymore, but he can’t back out now, no matter how irritated Grantaire looks.

“You’re doing my bloody head in tonight,” Enjolras sighs. 

“Thought that was the only thing I ever do,” Grantaire says, all saccharine and sharp eyes as he cocks his head. “That’s the only thing I’m good at, right?”

“You know that’s not what I said,” Enjolras snaps, and as soon as he’s said it there’s an avalanche following close behind, his chest flaring with hot frustration. “I hate when you do that – when you twist everything I say to make me feel like shit.” 

“Did you ever think that you make me feel like shit? I don’t have to twist anything!” Grantaire hisses back, instantly looking stricken at what he’s just said. 

Enjolras baulks slightly, and everything he was about to say falls flat in his mind, leaving him with nothing but the tired niggling of his hurt feelings. Grantaire looks mortified with himself for a moment, before his draws up those iron walls of defence and blocks Enjolras out.

“I don’t mean to,” Enjolras says quietly, ignoring the tightening of his throat. 

Grantaire stares stubbornly at the chair behind Enjolras and nods to himself, his mouth set in a hard line. “It’s like…sometimes in there. In the meetings. It’s like you’re a different person.” 

“Like what?”

“I mean you’re still you but it’s not the person who wants to know personal things about me in the middle of the night,” Grantaire says slowly. “It’s not the one who took me home and watched me sleep in case I didn’t wake up.”

“I’m just one person,” Enjolras frowns, because he _is_. 

Grantaire shrugs. “Either I mean something or I don’t. You can’t pick and choose when you feel like it; that’s not how this works.”

Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. He’s not looking at Grantaire. He’s not looking anywhere. Every time they move past something and make progress, Grantaire has them tearing five miles back again. Of course Grantaire means something; he means a lot more than just _something_ , and not just to Enjolras.

“I’m not doing this.” 

He expects a quick rebuttal – a sarcastic quip on Grantaire’s end – but all he gets is a loaded pause. The air feels too full, as if they’re silently choking on the dust of silence, toeing the edge of a line they’ve only just drawn. 

“So don’t.” 

Enjolras does look now. He looks hesitantly, oddly nervous of what he might see, of how it might make him feel. 

Grantaire has his knees tucked up against his chest and his socked feet driving a wrinkled dent into the front of the sofa cushion. He looks small, maybe even contained, but he doesn’t look scared. He looks like he’s holding in a hurricane and his narrowed eyes pierce straight through Enjolras, daring him to set off that storm inside of him. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t come to the protest,” Enjolras says carefully. Grantaire rolls his eyes but stays quiet. “It’s your prerogative if you think it’s useless, but it means a lot to other people. I don’t want you ruining it.” 

Grantaire’s eyebrows twitch together at that, but he quickly settles into a blank expression. 

Enjolras hates the way he has to wait for Grantaire’s emotions to slip out – the genuine ones that he holds close and private – and their transient nature. It’s the most tiring game Enjolras has ever had to play with someone, guessing their feelings in that way, wondering if everything he knows about someone is only skin deep. There’s no telling how deeply cut by pain Grantaire has been – whether he feels as burnt on his insides as all the pink circular scars on his arms suggest. 

Enjolras wants to know when Grantaire is hurting, but he won’t let him in. 

“I had no idea you thought me important enough that I could ruin an entire protest, but thanks,” Grantaire says drily. His feet slip to the floor and land with a soft thud, and he gives Enjolras this look, one that says he’s exhausted from having this conversation and is done with it. That just looking at Enjolras right now is tiring.

Enjolras fidgets on the spot, unsure of what to say next. He’s not apologising, but it feels wrong to leave it like this. He doesn’t want to burn what they’ve only just built in the heat of one annoying fight. 

“I’ll see you later, Grantaire,” he says eventually. He sounds tired too. 

Grantaire doesn’t reply. He’s shifted to lie on his back across the sofa, his arms folded stubbornly across his chest as he stares at the ceiling. 

Enjolras is half tempted to cross the space between them just so he can touch Grantaire’s cheek before he leaves. He’d settle for just a gentle squeeze of his shoulder at this point, but the taut angles in Grantaire’s posture are screaming for him to stay away. Enjolras doesn’t push his luck and goes to leave, but he stops in the middle of the doorway.

“I’ll text you, yeah?” 

Grantaire’s mumbled response is unintelligible, but it’s enough to get Enjolras out the door and out of Grantaire’s house with a strange weight pushing down on his shoulders, and while it’s not the outcome that Enjolras had wanted, it’s not altogether unexpected either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe i've been writing this chapter for ~10 months....for those are you that are still here, thank you so much and also what the hell. this fic somehow survived the total bombing of my life which really says something, because i give up on things too easily. it took a while but i feel like i know my characters again and better than ever....you might notice that there is now an official end point to this story and run screaming when you see how far it is, but i promise i got this. for once i know exactly how everything needs to happen and trust me - this extended hiatus was for the better! tell me what you think, i've missed your (virtual) voices....i'm so excited to be doing this again.
> 
> say hello to me on tumblr at [hufflepufffharry](http://hufflepufffharry.tumblr.com)


	19. plasters and other quick fixes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enjolras and grantaire have a lot of learning to do

Enjolras awakes to the smell of something burning and Kisstory Radio playing full blast two floors below, with Courfeyrac singing along at the top of his voice. Enjolras is determined to shove a pillow over his head and ignore it – and he does for a solid ten minutes – until the crash of pots and pans being dropped scares him out of bed. 

If Courfeyrac is cooking then someone needs to be there to supervise him, though Enjolras probably isn’t the one to do it. Last week he burnt toast so badly that the smell wouldn’t leave the house for days. Enjolras throws on his roomiest hoody anyway and cautiously descends the stairs, expecting to find an explosion of chaos once he rounds the corner of the living room.  

“What’s going on?” 

Courfeyrac jumps and whips around, grinning ear to ear when he sees that it’s Enjolras. “We’re baking treats for Prouvaire.” 

“Why?” Enjolras drags his feet over to the kitchen table and plops down into what must have been someone’s seat. There’s a tepid cup of tea and open newspaper in front of him, so Enjolras helps himself to both and snuggles further into his hoody. 

“He’s not feeling so well,” Courfeyrac says sadly, and he goes to refill the kettle. 

Enjolras grimaces at the headlines on the front page of the paper. “What’s wrong?” 

“A case of the blues,” Cosette answers, popping up from where she was crouched in front of the oven.  She swishes over to Enjolras armed with a bowl filled with a pink mixture. “Try this.” 

Enjolras goes to dip his finger in the bowl and gets a slap from a horrified Cosette. She thrusts a spoon under his nose instead and Enjolras begrudgingly lets her force-feed him icing. It’s rich and a little too sweet first thing in the morning, but his stomach definitely takes notice. 

“It’s good…tastes really fancy.” 

Cosette smiles brightly and hugs the bowl to her chest in delight. Her hair is pulled up on the top of her head with actual ribbons, and she looks like real Disney princess as she goes back to the counter and bumps hips with Courfeyrac. 

“It’s coconut and strawberry,” Cosette says, blowing flyaway strands of hair out of her face. “Courfeyrac is working on the vegan chocolate batch.” 

“Is Jehan still taking his meds?” Enjolras asks around a yawn. 

“Yeah.” Courfeyrac nods as he brings two cups of tea over. “I think that’s all okay, he’s just stressed out from uni and feeling a bit down.” 

“Maybe I’ll text him later.” 

Courfeyrac sits down opposite Enjolras and looks at him suspiciously. “Hmm, have you made it up with Grantaire yet?” 

“Not really…” Enjolras looks away sheepishly and pulls his hoody up over his face. 

“ _Enjolras_ —” 

“I feel really stuffy all of a sudden – all the heat from the oven I think.” Enjolras stands up and speeds towards the back door. He shuts himself outside without even thinking about grabbing a pair of shoes, and his socks are doing little to stop the freezing concrete of the patio from numbing his feet. 

Now that he’s outside he doesn’t really know why he thought it was a good idea in the first place, but standing in the cold is marginally better than Courfeyrac sitting him down for a disapproving lecture. He probably _needs_ the lecture, but he’s stubborn and determined to get things right by himself. He doesn’t need anybody to hold his hand or tell him what to do. 

He’s just about to skulk back into the kitchen with his tail between his legs when he hears a familiar laugh coming from the other side of the fence. 

Enjolras’ heart jackrabbits and he quietly steps onto the damp grass until he can peep through a gap in the fence. 

Grantaire is sitting on the low wall between the patio and garden with bare feet in nothing but pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. A slim black cat winds around his legs and keeps rubbing its face on his ankles while he tries to shoo it away half heartedly. 

“I knew Jehan should never have let you in,” Grantaire grumbles at the cat, but he still reaches down to scratch behind its ears. 

Enjolras steps back from the fence with a tightness in his chest that hadn’t been there before. 

He inhales and exhales deeply, letting the crisp fresh air cleanse him from the inside out and hopefully clear his mind. Not that he’s confused about anything; more than ever it’s obvious that he’s stupidly fond of Grantaire and nothing will change that. Their argument seems blown out of proportion now, a silly mess that is nothing compared to all the reasons why Enjolras loves to be around Grantaire. 

He wants to go over there and make up right this minute, but something stops him. 

Maybe it’s the sound of Courfeyrac complaining loudly, reminding Enjolras that the rest of his friends need him present too. Or maybe it’s because Grantaire goes back inside and shuts the door firmly behind him, and Enjolras doesn’t know what to do to make him open it again.

\-- 

Somehow a week passes and Enjolras and Grantaire still haven’t spoken to each other.

Well, they’ve exchanged a few texts but they both seem to have been busy enough to avoid incidentally crossing paths. It’s not even that Enjolras is angry, because he stopped being angry the moment he left Grantaire’s house a week ago. But he _has_ been nervous, scared even, and he knows he should have arranged to talk to Grantaire sooner. 

It’s too late now, as Grantaire comes down the stairs of the Musain just after Éponine and falls into Enjolras’ direct line of sight. He catches Enjolras’ eye but looks away just as quickly, and Enjolras resists the temptation to scold him for only wearing a t-shirt and leather jacket in this weather. 

He can’t stop staring at Grantaire and feels a lot like a kicked puppy, so much so that Combeferre punches him in the arm surprisingly hard and tells him to sort himself out. Enjolras frowns and rubs at his arm, sparing a glare for Combeferre before he goes back to watching Grantaire tell jokes and chat with the others like it’s any other week.

“Honestly,” Combeferre says beside him, “there’s no way I’m putting up with you two for the rest of my life.” 

He probably won’t have to, Enjolras thinks, stuck inside a bubble of pathetic self pity. He lets Courfeyrac begin the meeting and get all the admin out of the way, thinking that he’ll perk back up as soon as they open the floor for discussion. Courfeyrac sails through it all with a smile, and Enjolras is in the middle of wondering what he’ll have to do to get Courfeyrac to do it every week, when someone clears their throat.

“I made some mock ups for flyers and a few things online if you want to look over them,” Grantaire says. 

He sounds so normal, but he’s biting the nail of his ring finger and won’t stop jiggling his leg even though Joly has told him off twice already.

“You made posters?” Enjolras asks, a little incredulous but hopeful. “For our protest?”

Grantaire scratches the back of his head and shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I? I’m part of the group, I’m not trying to sabotage it…”

Enjolras holds his breath for a few seconds before launching himself in Grantaire’s direction as he gets up to bring a tube portfolio to the front. His hands go to Grantaire’s face and he kisses the surprise right out of him. Some of the group wolf whistle or groan but they can all stuff it because Grantaire kisses Enjolras back without hesitating, all smiles and warm cheeks. 

“I’m so sorry I was such a dick last week,” Enjolras says quietly, just for Grantaire to hear. 

Grantaire kisses him once more, his portfolio already lying long forgotten on the floor by their feet. “I don’t care, the whole thing was stupid. Let’s not fight about it.”

“Get a room!” Bahorel shouts, but Enjolras just hugs Grantaire even tighter and buries his face in his neck. He knows that Grantaire cares and that nothing said was stupid, but he’s not going to push his luck. He probably should but he gets caught up in how relieved Grantaire looks, and maybe he’s being selfish too.

“I just say things without thinking sometimes,” Enjolras whispers. “And it comes out sounding mean before I’ve even realised. I never want you to feel like shit. I’m sorry, again.”

“So we agree on you being a tosser then?” Grantaire says cheerfully. 

“Total massive tosser,” Enjolras concedes, and he lets Courfeyrac pry them apart to get the meeting going again. 

The strangest thing about Enjolras and Grantaire isn’t even their propensity to argue and somehow make up every time. It’s how they act around each other outside of occasional grand gestures of affection, like their kiss at the beginning of the meeting. On another day they could easily pass as just friends, or even frenemies. 

They’re not like Cosette and Marius who hold hands wherever they go but rarely share more than a chaste closed-mouth kiss in public; and they’re definitely not like Jehan and Courfeyrac, who make a great show of trying to outdo each other in embarrassing PDA. But the thing both of those couples have in common is how, for lack of a better word, couple-y they are. 

Enjolras and Grantaire don’t suddenly become attached at the hip; if anything their interactions settle down into something normal, as though the tension between them before they confessed their feelings had stopped them from being comfortable friends. They still have disagreements and Grantaire still flirts constantly and mutters inappropriate things in Enjolras’ ear when he passes by, but something tangibly changes. 

Maybe it’s the end of the urgent rush to have each other that has them sinking into a relaxed commitment – they know they’re together now, they’ve made it past that – it comes with the freedom to start learning one another inside-out. Whatever it is, Enjolras can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the meeting. 

He walks home with Jehan once they leave the Musain for the evening, caught somewhere in the middle of all their friends. Jehan’s cheeks are pink from the wine and he’s telling Enjolras how Courfeyrac nearly broke his arm this morning in a playful scrap, and Enjolras is listening but he’s also watching Grantaire up ahead doing ridiculous impressions of Joly and Bossuet. 

“And I keep telling him that I don’t _need_ an apology present – especially not an apology spa weekend – because he didn’t actually break my arm, but I think he’s still upset because I shouted at him after it happened.” 

“Courfeyrac can’t afford a spa weekend,” Enjolras says. 

“Exactly!”

Enjolras snorts when Grantaire accidentally walks into a lamppost while re-enacting Bossuet’s fall in the Musain earlier, and without warning Jehan shoves Enjolras across the pavement. 

“What was that for?” 

“You two are disgusting,” Jehan remarks sourly. “It’s unbearable.”

“We’re tamer that you!” Enjolras says indignantly, actually quite offended at the idea of being worse than Courfeyrac and Jehan.

Jehan side-eyes him and shakes his head. “You always _look_ at each other and you think you’re being discrete but you’re both really obvious. It hurts to watch.” 

“So it’s not obvious when you and Courfeyrac are kissing with visible tongue in front of everyone?” Enjolras asks, feeling very affronted. 

Grantaire takes that moment to look over his shoulder and give Enjolras a once over, winking before he turns back.

“Case closed,” Jehan says smugly.

By the time they reach their street Bahorel and Feuilly have gone off to watch the football in a pub, Bossuet and Joly trailing after them. It’s an unspoken but mutual decision that Enjolras goes home with Grantaire and they pointedly don’t invite anyone else to follow. Despite appearances it’s all quite innocent in reality – they just kick their shoes off and fall onto the sofa together – and it’s just nice to have a moment completely alone with each other.

Ten minutes later things are slightly less innocent. 

The television is on but goes ignored, the two of them too busy kissing to take much notice of the Antiques Roadshow marathon that’s on in the background. It’s the kind of domesticity that Enjolras never knew he wanted; kissing deeply on an ordinary evening to the sound of crap telly with a boy who really, really fancies him. 

Grantaire kisses him harder, pushing Enjolras to lie back on the cushions, his head thunking against the arm of the sofa. Eager, like he’s trying to make up for the past week, Grantaire slots himself between Enjolras’ thighs and bears down on him. 

The thing is, Enjolras loves fucking Grantaire and every other thing they do, but he’s missed kissing him like nothing else. He can’t believe they’ve been sulking and ignoring each other when they fit together so fucking well, like Grantaire was always made to smirk against Enjolras’ mouth and bite his bottom lip just the way he likes it.

Grantaire is hot. His hands are warmer and his breath is hotter. He’s got Enjolras feeling feverish and lazily comfortable at the same time, which turns out to be a glorious combination. Enjolras slides his fingers underneath Grantaire’s top and drags them gently up and down his ribs. 

Enjolras pulls back an inch. 

“I missed you like mad,” he says against Grantaire’s mouth, because he did and Grantaire should know that.

Grantaire pauses for a few seconds, looking so unsure that Enjolras worries he’s about to stand up and leave. “Yeah?” 

When Enjolras nods Grantaire kisses him hard, bruisingly so, and the words _me too_ aren’t said out loud but they hang between them regardless. 

Grantaire starts an assault on Enjolras’ neck next, scraping teeth over his adam’s apple and leaving red marks that will undoubtedly bloom purple tomorrow. 

“I’m going to get told off again,” Enjolras whines, because last time Grantaire did something like this his manager decided to instigate a mortifying discussion about Enjolras’ inappropriate appearance. 

He had to ask one of the girls at work to put some make up on him to make the lovebites less glaringly obvious, and he doesn’t fancy having to buy Keira new concealer if it happens again. 

“You like it,” Grantaire protests, words murmured into Enjolras skin. 

“That’s not the point,” Enjolras says with a pout, because of of them has to be responsible and there’s no use in lying. “Besides, I can’t stay. I’ve got loads of Amnesty work to finish tonight.”

Grantaire makes a displeased sound and buries his face in the crook of Enjolras’ neck, the rest of his body going limp and heavy on top of Enjolras. 

“Do it here.”

“You’ll distract me.” 

Grantaire puffs out a smug laugh. “I would never.” 

Enjolras slips one hand into Grantaire’s hair and sighs knowingly. “Of course you wouldn’t.” 

“Could I tempt you with a furry animal in need?” Grantaire tries, and Enjolras is truly lost.

“What are you talking about?” 

“That bloody cat won’t leave me alone,” Grantaire says. “I fed it once and now it won’t go away.” 

“And you’re surprised,” Enjolras replies, blinking at the ceiling. 

Grantaire shifts into the space between Enjolras and the back of the sofa, all his knobbly edges poking Enjolras as he does, until they’re lying side by side. 

“It must belong to someone,” Grantaire continues, “because it doesn’t seem to like being outside. Ever.” 

Enjolras hums to himself and takes Grantaire’s hand, absently peeling dried paint from his fingers. “I haven’t seen any posters for a lost cat, and it didn’t have a collar.”

Grantaire flicks Enjolras in the stomach and frowns. “You’re not suggesting I _steal_ a cat, are you?”

“I’m not suggesting you steal anything,” Enjolras fires back. “If it doesn’t have an owner then technically—”

“Then nothing,” Grantaire tuts in disapproval. “I’m not taking in some straggly little creature.” 

“Isn’t that exactly what you are?” Enjolras says with a wry smile. “In fact—” 

“Oh do shut up,” Grantaire snaps moodily. “I thought you had a mountain of work to be getting on with. I wouldn’t want to keep you.” 

Enjolras pinches Grantaire’s nipple through his shirt and gives it a sharp twist. 

“Ow!” Grantaire covers his nipple in defence and glares at Enjolras. “You’re giving me very mixed signals.”

“Bye,” Enjolras says simply, and allows himself one more long, lingering kiss from Grantaire that has his toes curling.

It’s tempting to let one kiss turn into another hour of it, so Enjolras breaks away and pushes himself upright. Grantaire watches him pull his dirty white trainers on, and puts up minimum fuss when Enjolras says he’s really leaving. If anything he looks happy…content. 

Enjolras goes home with numb lips and a matching smile of his own, and he feels like he’s walking on air. 

\--

Enjolras doesn’t remember the last time he saw the sun for more than twenty seconds. 

It hasn’t even been a particularly cold winter, but as February swiftly rolls into March there still seems to be no sign of spring or less grey days. 

Enjolras’ budding romance with Grantaire can be measured in a steady flow of numb fingers and chilly lips, going without gloves so that they can hold hands and feel the other’s skin, woolly socks not coming off during sex, and pointless bickering that ends with someone storming out into the limp drizzling rain.

Grantaire has pilfered Bahorel’s electric heater and has it cranked up to maximum to combat the insistent draught that sneaks through his windows, the flimsy curtain doing nothing to stop it. The heater is directly opposite them, hot air surrounding Enjolras where he sits on the floor at Grantaire’s feet with his back propped up against the armchair. Grantaire’s knees flank his shoulders, his fingers combing through Enjolras’ hair carefully as he hums a tune. 

It’s so ridiculously cozy and comfortable that Enjolras has to fight sleep off. Having Grantaire’s gentle motions are ever so calming, and the heat waves that pour over him have his eyelids drooping shut despite it being early afternoon.

“How do you think we could reduce voter apathy? In young people and the working class especially,” Enjolras says, finally giving in and letting his eyes close. 

Grantaire snorts. “I don’t think even you can do that, darling.” 

“Why not?” 

“Where do I begin?” He teases, pulling at one of Enjolras’ curls. 

With his eyes still shut, Enjolras frowns to himself. “How about starting with a valid criticism.” 

Grantaire sighs and lets his hands drop to hang over Enjolras’ shoulders. Enjolras tries not to show how put out he is, his stubbornness rising above his desire to be petted. 

“Well voter apathy isn’t something you can just change by awareness and campaigning, right?” Grantaire starts, and his fingers start tapping against Enjolras’ collar bones as if he’s holding back his usual gesticulation. “And when you look at low voter turnout it’s not necessarily just political apathy, sometimes it’s another version of a protest vote. And the root of both of those is the same; mainstream parties do fuck all to appeal to young or poor voters. So you can’t just say to these people that like, it’s _their_ fault for not voting and that we’ve got a shit government because of their apathy, because it’s really _not_ their fault all. Who exactly are we meant to trust in this massive shit show?” 

“But it’s such a massive proportion of the population that if they did vote and participate in politics, they’d be able to influence the political agenda in their own favour and vote in parties who _do_ appeal to them.” 

“My god, I still don’t understand how you’re so consistently idealistic. It’s baffling.” 

Enjolras can’t see him, but he knows Grantaire is rolling his eyes and grimacing.

“Well _somebody_ has to be, otherwise nothing would get done,” he says pointedly, and looks over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow at Grantaire. “So?” 

“ _So_ , your logic is based on best-case scenarios and a questionable faith placed in the general public. The problem isn’t making people aware of their own power, it’s the fact that they really don’t have any. Politics is a game for the elite – you know that. Let’s not pretend that top politicians actually give a shit about the little people with not much to offer them, they care as far as it will get them votes and that’s it.” 

Enjolras groans and raps his knuckles on Grantaire’s foot, giving the wall opposite a heated glare. “The entire political elite is not made up of right-wing reptiles, you know.” 

“They’re all scheming reptiles. who can even tell the difference between parties even more? Red, blue, yellow….it all looks brown to me, a very shitty shade of brown.” Grantaire scoffs, and he gives Enjolras’ hair another sharp tug. “Thought you were smarter than that, Enjolras.” 

Enjolras ignores the spark that jolts through his body at the pull on his hair, clenching his jaw instead. “Being clever isn’t the same as taking a negative outlook on everything.” 

“Ouch! Simmer down there, kitten,” Grantaire laughs, earning himself a pinch on the thin skin of his ankle.

 “The Green Party is a major contender now. Politics is changing quicker than you think—” 

“The Greens have _one_ seat.” 

“They’re still diverting votes from the main three and influencing the direction of politics!” Enjolras shoots back quickly. “And don’t even think about discrediting the SNP, I know what you’re like.” 

Grantaire makes an offended noise and pulls at Enjolras’ hair again. “I resent that comment! Are you trying to imply that I’m anti-Scottish? I’ll have you know that I’m very definitely, at least one-quarter Scottish—” 

“And three-quarters complete prick?” Enjolras says, turning around again. 

Surprisingly, Grantaire says nothing to that, but just stares at Enjolras with a quirk to his mouth. Enjolras stares back, waiting for a response that never quite comes. 

“You’re looking a little flushed there,” Grantaire says amusedly, his hand creeping back into Enjolras’ hair, a smug glint in his eye. “I always knew politics got you hot.”

“There you go, talking absolute shit again,” Enjolras says lightly, but his cheeks burn even warmer.

Grantaire smirks, his fingers tightening at the crown of Enjolras’ head. “I bet you’ve got Ed Miliband in your wank bank. Or are you more of a Dave kind of guy?” 

“Can you not bring up that horrible Blairite when I’m five inches from your dick?”

“Oh that’s what you want, is it?” Grantaire says, eyelashes lowered as he watches Enjolras between his legs. “Turn around then.”

Enjolras thinks about not doing it, except that really _is_ what he wants after having Grantaire messing about with his hair for so long. Enjolras shifts until he’s kneeling in front of the armchair, his hands sliding up Grantaire’s thighs. He bites his lip as he palms Grantaire through his jogging bottoms, his own pulse quickening every time Grantaire’s breath hitches. 

He doesn’t know if it’s a result of it being the only dick he’s ever touched aside from his own, but Enjolras _really_ likes Grantaire’s dick. Enjolras feels him thicken up through the material, and he swears his mouth starts watering as he grips Grantaire tighter, his fingers moving with more purpose now. Grantaire might be confusing, but his dick is nothing short of perfect. 

What’s more, is that Enjolras knows it. He knows what makes Grantaire squeeze his eyes shut or make the dirtiest sounds. Enjolras knows how to make Grantaire speechless like this, how to make him desperate, and he’s not going to pretend he’s not drunk on the new found power.

“Hurry up,” Grantaire presses impatiently, his thighs spreading even more. “Plan on teasing me to death?”

Enjolras huffs to himself and sits with his hands in his lap while Grantaire shoves his joggers down past his knees.

Grantaire slouches back again, and then folds his arms behind his head in a pose that reads unbearably cocky, and Enjolras is glad that they both know he isn’t being the slightest bit serious. 

“Come on then, darling,” Grantaire smirks. 

Enjolras preens inwardly, his blood fizzing beneath the skin at the simple pet name. Just to hide the smile that he can feel coming, Enjolras fits himself snug between Grantaire’s thighs and licks up the length of his cock.

It’s hard to believe that Enjolras never thought too hard about sex before Grantaire popped up – he’d tried to imagine himself sleeping with several people in the past few years, but it never felt _right_ and hardly ever got him off. Now he thinks about sex everyday, about having Grantaire in his mouth whenever he’s slouching in a chair and has his legs wide open, about them rubbing off in the toilet of whatever bar they’re getting drunk in, about sneaking away from every big night in to have Grantaire fuck him in his bedroom until he’s boneless and glowing.

Enjolras takes the head of Grantaire’s cock into his mouth and sucks around it languidly, still feeling sleepy and gloopy from the heater. He sinks down slowly and his eyelids flutter shut as he bobs his head, fingers curled around Grantaire’s base and twisting in rhythm with his mouth. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Grantaire says in a serious tone, and he moans when Enjolras peers up at him through his eyelashes, swallowing around him. 

Enjolras pulls up to catch his breath but keeps his hand moving around Grantaire, sliding up and down his cock while Enjolras licks at the tip and lathers him in open-mouthed kisses. Enjolras feels his own cock twitch when Grantaire threads one hand through his hair and urges him on, ragged whimpers coming from him in tandem with fingers clutching tighter around Enjolras’ curls, pulling harder as Enjolras falls back into a constant rhythm and jerks his hand faster with the spit that dribbles out of his mouth.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Grantaire groans, his other hand moving to frame Enjolras’ face and trace fingertips over one of his cheeks. “You’re so good at this,” Grantaire breathes heavily, his abdomen contracting every time Enjolras swirls his tongue around and under the head of his cock. It’s when Enjolras realises that Grantaire can feel himself in Enjolras’ mouth through his cheek that he loses composure and moans helplessly. 

Grantaire swears again, his eyes half shut and dark, but piercing into Enjolras with precision. His fingers trail from Enjolras’ cheek to his chin, before he slips two fingers into Enjolras mouth alongside his cock, just to see Enjolras’ lips open up around them and stretched wide, shining and wet. Enjolras whines, his own cock throbbing inside of the briefs he’s nicked off Grantaire, and he sucks Grantaire down deeper still. 

When Grantaire comes, loud and tugging hard at Enjolras hair, hard enough for it to hurt and give him a full-body shiver, Enjolras is upright on his knees and hunched over Grantaire. He doesn’t come in Enjolras’ mouth though – rather on and around his mouth as Enjolras finishes him with his hand and hovers his face over Grantaire’s cock with his lips parted and waiting. He’s aware that he looks like sin – dirty, even – and Grantaire’s awe-struck expression is a testament to it. 

Enjolras runs his tongue all around his lips before getting to his feet with the cracking of knee joints, and he straddles Grantaire’s lose limbs in the armchair. Grantaire looks up at him dazedly, his breath still coming out in heavy puffs as he wipes at Enjolras chin and lets him suck his finger and thumb clean afterwards. Once Grantaire is no longer brainless Enjolras kisses him hard, wanting Grantaire to taste himself in his mouth, and the tight grip on his hips tells Enjolras he does. 

He pulls Enjolras’ jumper off and tries to slow down his kisses, his tongue catching Enjolras’ lazily as he tries to kiss him thoroughly, but Enjolras is still wired up to his eyeballs with how turned on he is and he keeps coaxing Grantaire into kissing him fast and wet. He rolls his hips in Grantaire’s lap, careful of where he grinds when Grantaire hisses from overstimulation and digs his nails into Enjolras’ sides. It’s just not _enough_ , even when Grantaire sits back and lets Enjolras do what he wants, his hands shifting to slip inside of Enjolras’ underwear and grip his arse tightly, pulling his cheeks apart as Enjolras rubs off on his abdomen. 

“Where’s the lube,” Enjolras asks, his voice sounding unfamiliar to his own ears.

Grantaire grunts to himself and tries to wiggle a finger between Enjolras’ arse cheeks, eventually catching dry on his rim. “Bought a new one, it’s in a Boots bag by the window.” 

Enjolras stills and holds onto Grantaire’s shoulders as he pulls back and levels him with an unimpressed glare. “Are you joking?” 

“What?” Grantaire asks defensively, eyes flitting over to the where the plastic bag sits on the floor, a good three metres away. 

“Fine,” Enjolras snaps, before climbing off Grantaire’s lap with all the exasperation he can manage, hugging himself against the draught as he approaches the window. His dick wants to make a beeline to the inside of his body, but even an icy breeze can’t deter it. 

“And get your cock out while you’re at it!” Grantaire says loudly from where he’s still sitting, an annoying smirk stuck on his face.

“And they say romance is dead,” Enjolras mutters lowly, grabbing the entire bag to empty out on Grantaire’s bed. 

“I made you lunch, didn’t I?” 

It’s hardly what Enjolras calls romance – Grantaire made them crisp butties with stale bread and a bag of cheese puffs. It’s nothing to be proud of, so Grantaire should not be bragging whatsoever. 

“ _Alright_ ,” Grantaire concedes when Enjolras throws him a disappointed look, “you’re beautiful and amazing and please lie face-down on my bed with your legs spread.” 

Enjolras is still rocking a pretty solid hard-on, so shucking his pants and giving in isn’t exactly a great feat for him. He makes out that it is though, just to keep Grantaire in line. He flops down face-first and folds his arms beneath his head, and he watches Grantaire pull his trackies back up before he disappears from sight and crawls into the space between Enjolras’ legs.

Grantaire kisses from the top of Enjolras’ spine all the way to the dip in his back, lips pressing hotly over the twin dimples that sit on either side of Enjolras’ tail bone. He hears Grantaire shuffle backwards, then his mouth finds the inside of Enjolras’ left thigh and leaves another tingling trail that follows the curve of his bum, Grantaire raking his teeth against the flesh and biting down gently. Enjolras tries to resist grinding into the mattress, but he’s been hard for so long and Grantaire seems intent on taking his time, so he goes at it as subtly as he can.

He gets a half-serious smack on the bum when Grantaire catches him out; half serious because Grantaire is laughing to himself as he tells Enjolras off before he starts groaning at the way his arse cheek moves with the slap. Grantaire’s mouth lands right back on him, still grinning, and Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut at the feeling of that smile imprinting on his skin. 

“My dick is about to fall off,” Enjolras mutters, getting bored of Grantaire teasing him. “Will you get on with it?” 

“Don’t be such a baby,” Grantaire tuts, right before he spreads Enjolras’ cheeks apart and licks a slow stripe across his hole. 

Enjolras stills and tenses up on instinct, his eyes open comically wide as he gapes at the wall. 

“Is this okay?” Grantaire asks softly, breath fanning across Enjolras’ skin hotly. 

Enjolras is still is shock – he hadn’t been expecting that at all – and he takes a while to answer. It doesn’t seem to bother Grantaire though, who just keeps pressing open mouthed kisses around the curve of Enjolras’ bum.

“Yep, this is fine,” Enjolras says eventually, voice squeaky. Grantaire doesn’t do anything so Enjolras pushes back into his hands to get his point across. 

Grantaire parts Enjolras’ thighs a little more and the second swipe of his tongue has Enjolras’ limbs going limp again, melting further into the sheets the more Grantaire licks over him. 

The thing is, Enjolras feels more exposed than ever and part of him wants to squirm away and _does_ , but Grantaire just lays his arm across his lower back and holds him there, unable to move away from the constant motions of his mouth.

Enjolras loses himself in it, burying his face in his arms when the maddening drag of his cock against the sheets becomes too much. Grantaire flattens his tongue, fingers digging into Enjolras’ arse as he slowly unravels him.

“Fuck,” Grantaire groans, mouthing up to the dimples above Enjolras’ bum. “Your arse is perfect.” 

Enjolras keens when Grantaire bites him there, the sting thrumming through his entire body, and he sinks his teeth into his own wrist to muffle a moan. 

He doesn’t know why Grantaire has waited this long to do this – it seems like a pretty significant sexperience to have skipped out on. Enjolras tries not to think about how nobody else has ever come close to being this intimate with him, has never made Enjolras _want_ to do this with them, and he focuses on Grantaire’s tongue slipping past his rim. 

Enjolras feels his muscles tense and his toes tingle, his eyes squeezing shut when Grantaire hums and has him vibrating all over. Enjolras can’t keep quiet and though a part of him knows that anyone downstairs would definitely hear him, the moans spill out of him. 

Enjolras wiggles around on Grantaire’s tongue, his chest feeling tight as he tries to catch his breath. His eyes prickle with how good it feels, and he wants to come _so_ much but not yet. There’s something more. He needs more. 

“R,” Enjolras murmurs, reaching blindly for the lube. “Can you—” 

Almost like magic, Grantaire manages to get a hold of it and spread some over his fingers before teasing one in, Enjolras groaning at the searing hot relief. His thighs spread wider, trying to get Grantaire’s finger inside deeper before Grantaire takes a hint and pushes Enjolras’ knee up even further and crooks his finger. 

Enjolras whines, his face hot as he pushes back into the movement, damp hair curling spectacularly at his temples while Grantaire adds another finger and his tongue alongside it. 

“Yeah?” Grantaire breathes, and all Enjolras can do is bite his lip hard and nod.

He comes when Grantaire gets his tongue back inside him, instantly deep and maddening, his thumb stretching Enjolras’ rim open. 

Enjolras’ orgasm wracks through him, has him shaking and shivering with tears in the corners of his eyes until he presses his face into the mattress. Grantaire doesn’t let up until Enjolras’ muscles have all gone gloopy and melt into the sheets, and he lays a few more kisses against Enjolras’ hole until he twitches away from it. 

“Oh my god,” Enjolras mumbles, words jumbled from the lump of fabric in his mouth. “That was new.” 

Grantaire laughs and kisses Enjolras’ bum at least fifteen times before moving up the bed to roll Enjolras out of the wet spot and into the warmth of his chest. He’s too smooth for Enjolras to bear sometimes, it just makes him feel clumsy and ridiculous in comparison. 

Enjolras lets himself be spooned and closes his eyes, his breath still slowing down. He wants to say something funny at Grantaire’s expense but he thinks he’s had his brains well and truly fucked out because there’s nothing but static up there. Instead, he settles under Grantaire’s arm and pretends he can’t feel a smug smile against the nape of his neck.

\-- 

Grantaire is very persistent in calling Enjolras’ name, but he is _asleep_ for fuck’s sake.

“Get up,” Grantaire says firmly, voice coming from the foot of the bed. Enjolras ignores him and pulls the pillow over his head instead. “Right then, you asked for this…” 

Approximately two seconds later the duvet and blankets are being ripped from Enjolras and tossed on the floor, leaving him a shivering and whining mess in the foetal position. Despite his best efforts, there’s no other position he can move into that preserves any degree of heat, so he’s forced to slowly turn his gaze to Grantaire, who looks completely unimpressed. 

“I hate you so much,” Enjolras groans, squinting against the light in the room. 

“We’re going on a date,” Grantaire says, unfazed and determined. 

Enjolras, however, blanches. “What?” 

Grantaire crosses his arms and frowns at the wall, nodding to himself like he’s only just deciding this is really truly happening. “We’ve been having sexual relations for about three months now. It’s March, it’s time. We’re going on a date.” 

“ _Sexual relations_ ,” Enjolras repeats under his breath disbelievingly. “This is a bit backwards don’t you think?” 

Instantly Grantaire’s frown flits to Enjolras head-on, and he looks surprisingly serious. “So what? Don’t you want to go on one?” 

“Of course I do,” Enjolras fires back, his stomach flip-flopping in agreement. “I’ve never been on a date.” 

Enjolras’s cheeks are pink and warm, but are nothing in comparison to the ruddy patches on Grantaire’s. He pulls his arms tighter around himself and shoves his his shoulders hunch in. “Neither have I, not a proper one.”

Whether he’s meant to laugh or cry, Enjolras falls short of both. He feels dizzy with the prospect of being Grantaire’s first real, grown up date. Somehow the gap between twenty-two and nineteen years old feels huge, as though Grantaire has loads more life experience than Enjolras even knows what to do with, and he feels disgustingly special to be his first-something. 

First date….and maybe his first boyfriend in the near future. He’s allowed to dream. 

“You look like you’re about to shit yourself,” Grantaire says with a grimace, and Enjolras’ bubble of romance is burst on the spot. 

So what? Grantaire isn’t Prince Charming and he’s just about the best person that Enjolras has ever been propositioned by for a date. He’s crass and an arse but he wants to _woo_ Enjolras, which is not something he will be forgetting anytime soon. In a surge of newfound energy, Enjolras jumps out of bed and throws himself at Grantaire, arms clinging to his neck and feet lifting up off the ground when Grantaire catches him and holds on tight. 

“I’m going to shower and get dressed in my own house, and you’re going to pick me up in an hour and act as if I’ve never seen your dick before in my entire life.” 

Grantaire snorts and sets Enjolras back down, giving him a pat on the bum before he steps away to put a jumper on. 

“You love my dick, so I know this will be a struggle for you,” Grantaire says deadpan, sniffing at the jumper he wore yesterday…and four days in a row before that. He pulls a face before throwing it in the vague direction of a pile of dirty clothes that he’s amassed on the floor, and he goes for Enjolras’ cashmere one next. 

“Oh,” Enjolras says as he looks on, watching Grantaire slip into the camel coloured material with one smooth movement. 

“Can I wear this?” Grantaire asks, looking down at himself. 

Enjolras makes a noise of agreement, mouth clamped shut as he watches Grantaire walk over to the chest of drawers. Although not as skinny as he was in the past two months, Grantaire still has a fairly non-existent arse. It’s not that Enjolras minds at all – it’s adorable – it’s just that Grantaire never stops fussing over Enjolras’, and they’d be in danger of Enjolras’ ego not being able to fit through the door if he wasn’t so embarrassed.

He’s never seen Grantaire in a colour like this, beige hanging off his shoulders and warming the tone of his skin, not as stark or harsh as the blacks and navies that make up Grantaire’s wardrobe. With white briefs and nothing else, he looks like an ad campaign for knitwear, his slim frame and dark lashes perfect for it. 

Maybe Enjolras is pushing it, maybe it’s just the fact that Grantaire is wearing his clothes that has him unable to look away for even half a second. 

“How do I look?” Grantaire asks, his arms opened wide and a wider grin plastered across his face. 

“Horrible,” Enjolras lies, and he pouts at how absolutely edible Grantaire actually is. “You really shouldn’t steal other people’s clothes, you know.”

Grantaire snorts and takes quick strides back over the the bed, before covering Enjolras’ body with his own. “Then you should really give me all my pants back.” 

Enjolras is about to cry slander and lie through his teeth once more, but Grantaire beats him to it and catches his lips, kissing him deep and slow like they’re about to spend another hour in bed. He does have a lot of Grantaire’s pants, but it’s only because he stays the night so often. And so what? Just because he hasn’t given any of them back doesn’t mean he’s _hoarding_ them, even though he kind of is.

He thinks this date is probably not going to happen, because Grantaire’s tongue is in his mouth and he’s rocking against Enjolras’ morning wood like he intends to do something about it, the rough denim of his jeans being just on the right side of too much. That’s when he pulls away, hands cupping Enjolras’ face and his knee still planted firmly against Enjolras’ crotch. 

“You have morning breath. It’s pretty bad.” And with that, Grantaire hops off the bed and goes looking for socks. 

Enjolras doesn’t move, his cheeks hot and heart pulsing as he wills his dick back into submission. He takes a few controlled breaths and looks up at the ceiling. “Thanks.” 

“No problem,” Grantaire says breezily, sitting on the floor with one black sock and one Christmas themed sock. “Now get going – you’ve only got forty-five minutes.” 

Enjolras has barely got his clothes on when he gets kicked out of Grantaire’s room – by way of the front door lest he disrupt the mountain of blankets that they’ve stacked under the window to stop the draught. His own house is quiet when he steps inside, blissfully so, and Enjolras sprints upstairs to the bathroom with firm intentions to have a bath for thirty minutes while he frets over what to wear. 

What do you wear on a _date?_  

Grantaire is wearing Enjolras’ clothes, so he’s already rolling in romance points and good to go. Enjolras, however, needs to look near edible and off the scale gorgeous. 

That’s how he finds himself half an hour later, towel wrapped around his head, throwing clothes around his entire bedroom. 

It’s _so_ unlike him but he doesn’t even have time to worry about that, because if he stops he’ll just want to tidy it all up again. He’s got pants on though – Grantaire’s pants – so at least that’s a start. There’s a white pullover somewhere among the floordrobe that Enjolras decides will do, and after deciding that he’s _never ever_ wearing tweed again he finds a pair of slim black cords that makes his arse look divine. 

Enjolras feels an irritated call to the garment bag at one end of his actual wardrobe. He’s sitting on the floor to roll up his trousers and lace his shoes, but he can’t stop thinking about the lovely coat that sits covered and ignored on the other side of the room. He feels silly wearing it though, as if he has no right to be wearing such expensive clothes any time of the day, never mind an outing with Grantaire.

His mind is made up when the door knocker sounds loudly, followed by the doorbell four times in quick succession. Enjolras rolls his eyes and jumps up, tearing off the garment bag as quickly as he can before shrugging into the coat as he bounds down the stairs. It fits better than he remembers, red material soft and warm against his skin in a straight cut, and his neck snug in the black turned up collar. 

He opens the door to Grantaire’s raised fist, poised for a round of banging the door down. His expression goes from mildly bored to gobsmacked in record speed, and Enjolras feels rather pleased with himself. Grantaire steps silently aside for Enjolras to pass and looks him up and down, and he bites down on a small smile.

“There’s not a world in which you’re going on a date with me,” Grantaire says, his smile gradually getting bigger. “Never thought I’d look twice at a military man, but you—” 

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, cutting in. “I’m still anti-war though.” 

Grantaire’s face goes all soft with fondness as he reaches for Enjolras, red military coat caught between his fingers. “Of course you are, darling.” He goes in for a kiss and meets Enjolras’ cheek, to Grantaire’s surprise and Enjolras’ quiet amusement. 

“I hope you don’t expect me to put out on the first date,” Enjolras says faux-seriously. “I’m a very classy person; I’m used to wining and dining.” 

“Oh I know, we’re practically lady and the tramp.” Grantaire proffers his arm to link with Enjolras’, and they walk out into the street like incredibly civilised people. 

“You went to a very good school, let’s not pretend you’re aren’t posh,” Enjolras sighs, but Grantaire only laughs and tugs them in the direction of the high street and Overground station. 

Enjolras manages to resist asking where they’re going until they’re sitting down in the train carriage, heading into Central London. Grantaire doesn’t indulge him and pretends to zip his mouth closed, his cheeks puffing up with air and poorly contained laughter when Enjolras gives his best pout. He gets absolutely nothing from him though, and every train they get onto has Enjolras feeling more and more intrigued. 

“I don’t know if you’ll like it,” Grantaire says as they leave the tube station and presumably approach _somewhere_. 

They seem to be going in a direction suspiciously near to Hyde Park, and the possibilities and potential scenarios and running through Enjolras’ head like a flip book.  “I’m sure I will, just relax.”

Grantaire turns to him with a frightful look, as if that’s the thing he is absolutely least likely to count on doing right now.  “I should give you an intro first...fuck I should have prepared this earlier.” 

“It’s a date, not Blue Peter,” Enjolras says deadpan.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Grantaire presses, and the ringlets sticking out of his hair the most are trembling. “It’s just, like, you aren’t an art person but you still like art. You have mediocre taste but that’s okay because you’re you and I have a lot to teach you but – well it’s an art thing.” 

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “An ‘art thing’?” 

Grantaire does indeed lead them through the park, his mouth running nervously about things Enjolras can hardly take in all at once, but are obviously important for him to say out loud. Enjolras will never remember the names of artists and designers he’s talking about, but he will remember the way Grantaire’s hands move when he’s talking about something passionately. 

“Ignore everything I just said.” Grantaire stops suddenly and grabs Enjolras’ hand. “It’s all rubbish. This is a really lovely installation and I want you to see it because it’s beautiful and so are you.” 

Enjolras can’t help the fondness burning fiercely in his chest, it just erupts out of nowhere and takes over his entire face as he watches Grantaire’s cheeks grow hot. “That’s so cheesy and ridiculous.” 

“God, I know.” 

Enjolras takes Grantaire’s face in his hands and squashes his cheeks before kissing him just once and pulls away. “I love cheesy and ridiculous.” 

He takes them to the Serpentine Pavilion, an installation of cave-like tunnels with iridescent walls that create a patchwork spectrum of shimmering colour. It’s like walking through a psychedelic cocoon of plastic, or the inside of a jagged crystal held up to the light. Enjolras can’t think of any words to describe it properly, and even Grantaire seems to share this problem as they slowly circulate the installation hand-by-hand.

“This is incredible,” Enjolras breathes, almost afraid to disrupt the alien atmosphere that sits within the steel cage of art. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

Each passage gleams with a futuristic colour scheme, with one in particular that reminds Enjolras of pearls. They stand in the middle of it, surrounded by seamless glimpses of pink, white, gold, and silver all at once. It’s an unforgettable vision, the kind of art that Enjolras will probably remember in years to come while other memories fade.  

Grantaire is watching him. 

It makes sense that Grantaire would be less interested in the surroundings since he’s already been here, but he’s really bloody staring at Enjolras. 

Maybe he’s realised that Enjolras knows nothing about art and has no business going out with an actual practicing artist. Maybe he’s considering when he can make a run for it and free himself from a life of dating Enjolras; he’ll probably end up in a bohemian commune where everybody knows everything about art and they’re all very sexually experienced and Grantaire will never come back again. 

Now that Grantaire is frowning at him, the last option seems more and more likely. 

Enjolras is just about to ask Grantaire if he’s bored when Grantaire beats him to the punch and asks his own question. Enjolras has no idea what that question is, because somehow he’s still stuck thinking about Grantaire having sex and fun and happiness with other people. 

“What?” 

Grantaire swallows. “I said, I want to give you something.” 

It’s Enjolras’ turn to swallow around the lump in his throat. _Give him something_ , that sounds ominous and incredibly serious. “Okay.” 

Grantaire doesn’t move for a moment, just continues frowning at Enjolras for a few seconds, until he reaches up to pull one of his necklaces off. Enjolras knows which one it is; he remembers all of Grantaire’s jewellery despite pieces always coming and going. It’s the ring looped through a simple silver chain, and Grantaire is looking at Enjolras expectantly.

“Come here,” Grantaire says quietly, and Enjolras does as he says, feeling awkward and too jerky in the fragile bubble that has formed around them. 

Enjolras bows his head so that Grantaire can put the necklace on him, and once it’s hanging around his neck Enjolras feels much heavier. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like he has taken a large part of Grantaire and holds it in the ring that lies against his chest. 

“I just found it and it’s very important to me,” Grantaire says softly. “It’s just…it’s worth a bit of a money and I can’t trust myself with it. I’ve pawned it before and it’s too important to lose. Kind of like a family heirloom” 

“Why are you giving it to me?” Enjolras asks, and they’re so close that they’re almost whispering.

Grantaire shrugs. “I tried to hide it from myself, it’s sort of like a game. I get really fucked and hide it somewhere in my room – or Montparnasse hides it there for me – and then I hope I don’t remember when I’m down.” 

“Give it to Éponine,” Enjolras says, because he doesn’t think he should be wearing this. “I can’t – don’t give it to me.”

Grantaire shakes his head straight away, and looks down into the slither of space between them.  “Her parents go through her things and they’ll sell it straight away – for half of what it’s worth mind you.” 

“ _Grantaire_ , I can’t take this.”

“ _Yes_ you can. If I need a fix enough I’ll sell anything I own. Please?” 

Enjolras takes a deep breath and tries to uncoil the tension in his shoulders. “What is it?”

Grantaire smiles to himself and starts fiddling with the ring as he talks. “It was my grandmother’s wedding ring. She gave it to my mum when her first husband died – said he was the only one she’d ever be in love with. When my mum died it was the only thing left to me that I managed to get a hold of. I kept her bag of possessions from the hospital and never told anyone, but it was in there.” 

Enjolras doesn’t trust himself to speak, doesn’t trust his voice not to crack and betray the heartbreak he feels at Grantaire’s words. He knows not to show pity, not to tell Grantaire how sorry he is, not to pretend that he understands, but that he’s listening. 

“What happened to the rest she left you?” Enjolras asks, voice only a little shaky. 

Grantaire sighs heavily. “It’s all tied up in inheritance red tape. I don’t really know what’s rightfully mine and all that, but my dad has everything else but this. I’m sure I could demand my share of the money and whatever she put in her will, but it’s not like I can afford a lawyer.” 

“If you wanted—”

“And I don’t need one,” Grantaire says swiftly, cutting Enjolras off before he can get started. “I don’t want to ruin her memory like that. She’d hate for us to be fighting over things like money and jewellery.” 

Enjolras nods, though he has to bite his tongue against a sour comment relating to fighting and Grantaire’s father. It certainly doesn’t seem that he shares the same values as Grantaire, and it makes Enjolras’ blood boil. 

“All I need,” Grantaire says a little brighter, “is for you to look after this and not lose it.” 

“I can do that.” Enjolras nods again and looks down at Grantaire with determination, as though he’s been handed the Queen’s jewels to protect with his life. He’d sooner protect this than the Queen’s jewels at any rate. 

“Good.”

Grantaire peers up at him, shoulders hunched over and making him appear so small and vulnerable. He kisses Enjolras and they both know that it means thank you, that it means so much more than those two simple words of gratitude. It means they’re in this together, that they’re one step farther into something they can’t back out of, even though neither of them are willing to own up to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ref for enjolras' coat [here](http://cache2.asset-cache.net/gc/450959674-michael-jacksons-red-military-jacket-worn-in-gettyimages.jpg?v=1&c=IWSAsset&k=2&d=GkZZ8bf5zL1ZiijUmxa7QZbC5jfhDcqBI5FTGb5BeMtJMcS8lE3Eo10VBLBlwF2cSeTsx6YoVYFXBxz6bugFDw%3D%3D) and ref for the installation [here](https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=ysl+military+jacket&espv=2&biw=1194&bih=658&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiutLbwqIzLAhWpvnIKHQUADt4Q_AUIBigB#tbm=isch&q=serpentine+pavilion+2015)!


	20. touchstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jehan performs and grantaire makes a choice

“Get out of my room,” Enjolras complains, swatting murderously at Courfeyrac on top of him. 

“ _Please_!” 

Enjolras tries to kick Courfeyrac off, but unlike Enjolras he actually partakes in regular exercise and easily overpowers him. They’ve been bickering childishly for the last ten minutes, which was when Courfeyrac decided to wake Enjolras up by launching himself at the bed. 

“Sundays are very precious to me,” Enjolras grumbles. “I am not spending it shopping with you and Marius.” 

Courfeyrac huffs in frustration and starts pummelling his fists against Enjolras’ torso, hitting him right in the ribs. 

“Well Combeferre said he’s only coming if you are, so you have to.” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and groans, rubbing his sore shoulder and concedes defeat and rolls onto his back. “I don’t have any money for clothes,” Enjolras says with a sigh. “I’m trying to save up.” 

Courfeyrac lights up and grins. “That’s nonsense – why would you be saving up? How incredibly boring of you.” 

“Watch it, or I’ll change my mind.” 

Courfeyrac doesn’t believe him for a second, and instead hops out of Enjolras’ bed with even more energy than he started out with. 

“I’m going to tell ‘Ferre the good news. We’re meeting Marius at half ten so don’t stay in bed – I mean it!”

Enjolras keeps his eyes open for as long as it takes Courfeyrac to leave the room and shut the door. Then he promptly buries his face into the pillows and drifts back to sleep, praying that Marius will fall down the stairs and get a minor injury so that the outing has to be cancelled.

No such luck, as it happens. 

Courfeyrac returns ten minutes later and doesn’t even say anything as he aggressively opens all the blinds and yanks out the pillows from under Enjolras’ head. He makes a noisy threat about drowning Enjolras with cold water and then actually stands by the desk until Enjolras has gotten out of bed and put some clothes on. 

Once Enjolras has brushed his teeth and got his shoes on, Courfeyrac deems it safe to disappear again. Enjolras watches him go into the bathroom to fix his hair, but continues down the stairs in search of caffeine. 

He finds Combeferre in the kitchen with a cup of tea and his laptop open, looking equally as unimpressed. He mutters a greeting to Enjolras when he looks up, but doesn’t bat an eye when he gets no reply. 

Stomach grumbling loudly, Enjolras pours a bowl of cereal for himself and pulls up a chair next to Combeferre, peering at his laptop while he checks the morning news. They sit in comfortable silence, Enjolras being mostly incapable of intelligent conversation until he drags himself to the coffee machine and returns with a steaming mug. 

“I’m surprised Courfeyrac convinced you,” Combeferre says eventually. He closes his laptop with a small smirk, but still looks resigned at the prospect of their shopping trip. “I told him there was no way you would give up your Sunday lie in to bond with Marius, but apparently anything is possible.”

“I don’t think I really had a choice in the matter,” Enjolras says grimly, staring into his black coffee like it might save him. “Courf has a rather violent method of persuasion.”

  

They meet Marius at Spitalfields bright and early, and Enjolras thanks his lucky stars that they’re not on Oxford Street instead. A market he can just about manage – but overcrowded pavements and static queues inside stuffy shops? Absolutely not.

Marius looks happy to see them, if not a little surprised at Enjolras’ presence, but he goes in for a hug anyway. And even though Marius does occasionally get on Enjolras’ nerves, it’s hard to be so stubbornly grumpy when he looks pleased as punch and totally harmless, especially when he pushes Courfeyrac away for ruffling his hair into a mess. 

“No offence, but why are we here again?” Enjolras says to the group, but mostly to Courfeyrac.

“Valjean is taking Marius and Cosette to the theatre,” Courfeyrac answers as he slings his arm around Marius’ neck. “And they’re going to a fancy restaurant.” 

Enjolras raises his eyebrows at Marius’ sheepish grin. “You don’t have anything at all to wear?” 

“This is my only coat,” Marius says with a frown, tugging at the sleeves. “It looks a bit battered and I’m not sure I’ve got anything else that’s nice enough.” 

“What about your tweed?” Combeferre asks, only to receive a sharp look from Courfeyrac. 

“Don’t even tempt him – he’s not wearing tweed to the theatre!” Courfeyrac extricates himself from Marius and leads them towards the stalls. “Also, if you see anything really weird then let me know. I feel like getting something for Prouvaire.”

Enjolras hums to himself and drags his feet tiredly. “You know sometimes I forget that you and Jehan are actually going out. I would not have predicted that last year.” 

“Obviously you don’t sleep in the room next to him,” Combeferre grumbles, much to Courfeyrac’s delight. 

Enjolras sighs and looks around. “Maybe we should be in a suit shop rather than a market.” 

“Feuilly said I’d be able to find something cheaper here,” Marius shrugs. 

“Feuilly works in the Traders’ Market, not the Fashion Market,” Enjolras mutters, feeling a little bit exasperated already. 

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes and glares back at Enjolras. “ _Alright_. Thank you for your valuable insight but I think Feuilly knows the entire market pretty well.”

Marius stands there and awkwardly looks between the two of them until Combeferre heaves a sigh and takes hold of Enjolras’ shoulder. “I think I’m going to get Enjolras a coffee – you know how cranky he gets when you wake him up early on a Sunday.”

Combeferre doesn’t leave a moment for anyone to protest, instead pushing Enjolras in the direction of a small café in the centre of the market. He’s got quite a tight grip on Enjolras which suggests this isn’t a negotiable detour, but is more like an exile to the naughty corner. 

“You’re paying then,” Enjolras huffs when they get inside. “I’ll have a cappuccino.” 

Combeferre elbows him but gets his wallet out anyway, ordering drinks for both of them. They take a seat at the table outside and wait for their drinks, Enjolras resting his head on his hand while his eyes struggle to stay open. He must doze off for a minute or so because he jerks when the strong scent of coffee appears under his nose. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, not waiting a moment to take a sip. 

“That’s alright,” Combeferre says pleasantly as he rips open a sachet of brown sugar. “You were being rude so I had to intervene before Courfeyrac popped a vein.” 

Enjolras’ face screws up and he stares at the table. “I wasn’t being that rude. Marius is just sensitive.” 

Unfortunately, that must not have been the answer Combeferre was hoping for because he kicks Enjolras in the shin and tuts disapprovingly. “Marius likes you a lot so you should really try to be nicer to him. He can’t help it if his political views are…problematic.” 

“Understatement of the year,” Enjolras scoffs, gulping down half of his coffee. 

“Come on, I’m helping you bunk off for a while so you better cheer up.” Combeferre gives him an easy smile, the kind that always makes Enjolras feel guilty for being a shit. “You could get Grantaire something.” 

Enjolras snorts and stirs a spoon around the remainder of his cappuccino. “Grantaire has more money than I do.” 

“One day you’re going to wish that you’d come to me for budgeting advice and it will be too late.” Combeferre leans back and crosses his arms with smug satisfaction as Enjolras continues to look dejectedly into his cup. 

Anyway, Enjolras doesn’t need Combeferre’s stupid budget plan. He’s perfectly capable of not bankrupting himself beyond repair – that’s what his overdraft is for. He’ll probably ask Combeferre for help in about five years’ time, but until then he’ll put up with rationing his drinks at the end of the month and sometimes working weekends to catch up. 

They find Marius and Courfeyrac a while later, having spent at least ten minutes wandering through about a hundred stalls to locate them. Enjolras’ mood has improved thanks to Combeferre and the caffeine boost so he walks alongside Marius and browses through clothing racks with him. He even bails Marius out of having to buy a hideous jacket that Courfeyrac suggests: one that has padded shoulders and a print that would look more at home on the sofa set of an 80-year-old. 

Enjolras drags Marius away from a horrid selection of brown suits, past the old fashioned bespoke glasses that Combeferre has become engrossed in, past Courfeyrac trying on a floor length fur coat and charming the life out of a vender, and brings them to a nice little menswear stand. Enjolras doesn’t plan on buying anything but it doesn’t stop him from having a good look, even if it’s with wistful eyes. 

His fingers catch on something soft as he’s skimming the rail of clothes. He stops and pulls it out a little, just to see what it is, and he smiles to himself.

Marius appears behind him and peers over his shoulder. “You’d look good in that.” 

Enjolras snorts and pulls it off the rail, holding the jacket out in front of him. “Grantaire has one just like it,” he says softly, skimming his knuckles over the velvet lapel.  

“Oh, the green one!” Marius chirps, watching as Enjolras holds it out at arms length. He reaches around Enjolras and runs his fingers across the fabric too, marvelling about how nice it feels. “You should try it on.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the one looking for jackets?” Enjolras says, raising an eyebrow as he turns his head. 

“Aw, go on!” Marius pleads with a dopey grin, all freckles and happy laugh lines as he gives Enjolras the best set of puppy eyes he’s ever seen. Enjolras understands why Courfeyrac and Cosette are both so enamoured by him – the idea of disappointing a face like that is one that can never really be carried out. 

Enjolras sighs deeply like it’s a great deal of hassle to him, and in some ways it genuinely is – taking off his coat in this kind of weather is a true hardship. He does it anyway, pushing his duffle into Marius’ arms as soon as he’s shrugged out of it, and slipping into the velvet jacket easily. It fits nicely, hugging his frame in the right places and not too boxy, and Enjolras is pleasantly surprised as he straightens it out.

He moves to stand in front of a mirror and is a little miffed to find that it looks very good. It’s not conductive to his plan of saving money – especially when it makes him look sharp but not too serious. He admires it from a few different angles, trying to find some fault that will put him off buying it, but it seems to be in mint condition. 

“I think you should get it,” Marius says appraisingly, studying Enjolras with his arms folded. “You look really cool in it.” 

Enjolras looks over his shoulder at a pink-cheeked Marius, before he sees Combeferre and Courfeyrac coming over. He hums to himself and pulls out the price tag, reading it forlornly as Combeferre whistles and claps him on the back. 

“That’s very smart,” he says, nodding in approval. “Looks good.” 

Courfeyrac stands at his other side and looks thoroughly unimpressed. “I thought you weren’t going to buy anything, tight-arse.” 

“I’m not buying it,” Enjolras mumbles, letting go of the price tag so he can quickly slip the jacket off. “Just looking.” 

Marius clears his throat from behind them and musters up his sternest face. “You are absolutely getting it. I won’t let you say no.”

It comes to a silent standoff and Enjolras is heavily outnumbered. The peer pressure is very real, and Courfeyrac would probably have snatched the wallet out of his back pocket if he’d tried to say no. Enjolras is secretly a tiny bit pleased, because the jacket is lovely and he can’t wait to show Grantaire and have a laugh about their matching pair. He’s not telling Combeferre and Courfeyrac about it though – they will undoubtedly take the piss out of him for days and it’s something Enjolras cannot be bothered to endure. 

Enjolras hardy even complains for the rest of the morning, diligently helping Courfeyrac to find antique oddities for Jehan and keeping Marius away from the more hideous jackets and coats that he stumbles across. He’d never say it aloud, but Enjolras’ mood perks up significantly with the knowledge that he’s got something to go and share with Grantaire later, and he fidgets with anticipation all the way home.

  

Armed with his shopping and a small kind of excitement that he’s never felt before, Enjolras goes tearing up the stairs and out of his window. Grantaire should actually be at work, but it slips Enjolras’ mind when he’s busy imagining Grantaire’s reaction to them owning matching velvet suits. 

Grantaire isn’t at work.

He’s sprawled out on his back with his head hanging off the foot of the bed, eyes glazed and limbs deadweight. Enjolras’ eyes move to the little wooden box that lies open by Grantaire’s left knee, its contents already spilled out and rummaged through. Syringe, spoon, lighter, and folded up paper; the usual. 

Enjolras stays frozen in the window like a gargoyle caught off guard, still unsure of what he’s meant to do when this happens. Grantaire looks peaceful, malleable, even docile, but it’s in all the ways that have a deep frown digging into the space between Enjolras’ eyebrows. He twitches and his bags rustle. 

Grantaire makes a quiet noise that sounds like he’s in heaven. Although Enjolras thinks that wherever his mind is, it’s a little more like Babylon over there. He can’t really tell if Grantaire is conscious or not and he feels uncomfortable watching when Grantaire is so disconnected from himself, so Enjolras slips out silently and finds himself tiptoeing all the way back through his own window and into his bed.

He doesn’t do much over than sit down and twist his body to smash his face into the duvet, his brain going both a mile a minute and completely blank all at once. It’s nothing new, but Enjolras still doesn’t know how to casually react to someone shooting up – he’s a very sheltered boy, all things considered. And it’s not like it’s just anyone, it’s _Grantaire_.

It’s _his_ boy that he keeps seeing with a belt pulled tight around his bruised arms, even if he’s not allowed to call him that yet. 

 

\--

 

Enjolras has a weakness and it’s that subtlety is not his strong suit. 

They’re all in a dimly lit student bar, dutifully attending a poetry night that Jehan features in. He hasn’t come on stage yet but Enjolras already knows how brilliant he is and can’t help but subconsciously judge everyone else in relation to him. Considering how little he knows about writing poetry, Enjolras doesn’t think it really matters. 

There’s another thing; he’s been avoiding Grantaire. 

Well, that’s not quite right. He’s been seeing Grantaire and speaking to Grantaire but he’s been avoiding a conversation that they should have. It’s a boundaries-type conversation – as in, they should really establish some. Grantaire knows Enjolras has something to say but hasn’t pushed him once, thank god, but the guilt is eating Enjolras up and he knows he has to deal with it tonight. 

They haven’t kissed in three days and ten hours. Enjolras is counting. 

Of course it’s Grantaire who starts The Talk, honing in on Enjolras sipping a beer and staring into space during a break. He drags up a stool and pulls the pint from Enjolras’ hand, raising his eyebrows minutely when Enjolras barely makes a movement, and takes a hearty gulp. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” 

Enjolras slumps a little. “Nothing’s wrong, I’m just being weird.”

Grantaire hands back Enjolras’ pint half empty and leans closer, clearly unconvinced. “You are being weird. Did you come over earlier in the week, to my room?” 

“No,” Enjolras lies on instinct. “Why?”

Grantaire shrugs, “I don’t know, I thought you did but it might have been a dream or something. I just had a niggling feeling.”

“I did,” Enjolras says, and he notes how Grantaire’s calm expression remains steady through his sudden change of story. He probably knew all along, but Enjolras is going to pretend he didn’t. “You were, uh, you’d just shot up.”

“Mm, I was probably nodding…then caught Mr Obvious practicing his model moves in my window before we both slipped out,” Grantaire says with a sly smirk.

“Sorry,” Enjolras admits sheepishly. “I wasn’t really sneaking around, just wanted to show you something silly.” 

Grantaire’s smirk fizzles into a sad little smile, before that fades too. “Does it make you uncomfortable? Tell me if it does.”

Enjolras shakes his head with his lips pressed together. He’s not really sure what it is he feels. 

“Enjolras—” 

“I just don’t know if I should leave you alone or poke you or what.” 

“Poke me?” Grantaire laughs, his eyes shining as purple and pink lights dance across his face. 

“You know what I mean,” Enjolras mutters, cheeks warm. 

“Just come back later, okay?”

Grantaire takes Enjolras’ chin between his thumb and forefinger and leans in to kiss him slowly, chaste enough if Enjolras hadn’t been thinking about it non stop for the past four days. 

“Okay,” Enjolras says dumbly once they pull apart, and he runs his tongue across his lips and the inside of his mouth just to taste the whisper of Grantaire that stays behind. Then he remembers something else. “Promise me you’re not sharing any kit?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes good naturedly and places his hand on his chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die. The girls at the needle exchange are _very_ fond of me, and Joly keeps nicking syringes for me. Honestly darling, I’ve got needles coming out of my fucking arse.” 

Enjolras tries to look serious but Grantaire’s grin is infectious as always, and he ends up slapping him on the arm for making a joke out everything. Enjolras sobers a little and says, “You shouldn’t do it by yourself though, it’s not safe.” 

“Someone is awfully clued up on the junkie lifestyle lately,” Grantaire teases with a laugh. “I think you’ll find I’ve been managing just fine without your doting care.” 

“That’s debatable,” Enjolras mutters, checking his watch to see how much longer they’ve got before they need to go back to their seats. “You’re buying me another drink, by the way.” 

“So many _demands_.” 

After grabbing a couple of beers they thread through the crowd and find the rest of their friends saving their seats at the front. Grantaire gives Jehan’s hair a rustle before sitting down between Bahorel and Joly, everyone wishing him luck to settle his nerves. Jehan has been performing for nearly a year now but he still gets the jitters beforehand.

“I can’t believe I haven’t seen you perform yet,” Feuilly says with a grin, his arm wrapped around Jehan’s shoulder for a rough hug. “You’re going to blow me away.” 

“He’s brilliant! The best poet in London!” Bossuet chirps, looking proud as anything while Jehan pulls his jumper up over his face to hide his pink cheeks. 

“Shut up guys, you’re going to jinx it,” he mumbles, looking around to see the rest of the audience returning to their seats as the lights go down. 

Jehan ends up being the last of the open mic performers before the headline acts, and he’s worked himself into a trembling disaster while drinking a continuous flow of red wine. But as soon as he awkwardly shuffles onstage in his stripy socks and no shoes he seems to relax, smiling bashfully as he introduces himself. 

He smashes it, of course. 

He’s like no one else there, looking sweet and demure under the spotlights, adorably gawky as he gesticulates with a slightly drunken ease. His eyes flutter shut as beautiful words soar from his mouth and leave the audience silent, frozen in awe. 

The applause he receives for his two poems is raucous, Courfeyrac and Bahorel whooping especially loud from their low table in front of the stage. Jehan steps down with a pleased glow and hands still clapping around him as he shies off to the side where other poets stop him with words of praise. 

It’s a good mood all around after that, and they have a jolly old time laughing and cheering for the rest of the evening, everyone taking advantage of the student prices to pile in the drinks. They stick around long after the poetry ends, upon which Courfeyrac suggests a game of Never Have I Ever. You’d think that there would be nothing new to discover among themselves by this point, but apparently there is no end to the list of strange things Courfeyrac and Jehan get up to in their spare time.

Enjolras is more content than he’s ever been before, and it feels like his entire life is slotting together in a way he never could have predicted. It’s almost as though everything up until now has been building up to this moment – the new normality that he’s made for himself. He tries to imagine what it would be like if they’d never left university or moved to Dalston, but it’s an alternate reality he’s not interested in.

They all say their goodbyes and stumble to their respective homes at a very respectable midnight, promising to see each other soon, and Enjolras doesn’t stop smiling the entire way there. 

 

\--

  

A total mess surrounds Enjolras as he attempts to organise every single piece of paper that he owns. It had started with his desk – clearing away all the clutter and unnecessary bits and pieces – but once he got stuck into it he became rather ambitious and took on the entire room. 

When his phone starts ringing he has to carefully tiptoe his way across the few clear spots on his floor to reach his bedside table. Grantaire’s name and photo lights up the screen when he picks it up, and he only just manages to catch the call. 

"Come outside," Grantaire demands as soon as Enjolras answers. 

Enjolras pulls the charger from his phone and sits down on the bed, surveying the chaos in front of him. "The roof?" 

"Yeah, hurry up, it's cold." Grantaire hangs up and leaves Enjolras listening to nothing but the dead line for a few seconds. 

Enjolras casts one more sorry look at his room before getting up, walking over to the window before pulling himself up and out, wishing he'd thought to bring a few thick blankets with him as soon as his face hits the brisk air. Grantaire is on the other side of the partition, back against the window and his legs pulled up to his chest. He’s got his coat on at least, but when Enjolras sits down next to him and mimics his position, he can feel the constant shuddering of Grantaire's body. 

"Why aren't you inside? Where there's actually _heating_?" Enjolras asks, tugging Grantaire closer to his side with one arm, squeezing him there to try and pass over some warmth. 

"Well you say that, but we've been a bit behind on bills. It was only a matter of time until the heating went," Grantaire sighs, not sounding too bothered about it. Enjolras rolls his eyes, but he can't quite quash the worry that is rising up in him. 

He grabs Enjolras’ hand and pulls it into his lap so that he can fiddle with his fingers and draw circles into his palm. Enjolras leaves him to it and they settle into a comfortable silence, the only sounds coming from the occasional car or passer by on the street below. 

“You look like the stars,” Grantaire murmurs, blinking up at Enjolras sleepily.

“What does that even mean?” Enjolras asks, laughing softly as Grantaire smiles to himself and shuffles close enough to rest his head on Enjolras’ shoulder.

“The way you feel when you look at the stars – that’s what you look like. Or maybe it’s the stars that look like you. They look like the way you make me feel.” 

Enjolras looks at the stars, or what little they can see of them through a thick haze of light pollution and fog. Grantaire melts further into his side, like his limbs are slowly liquefying and losing all strength. Enjolras replays Grantaire’s words in his head. It should be a more romantic sentiment than it is. 

“You’re very fucked,” Enjolras says quietly. He finds he’s not angry at all, but something heavy spreads among his chest, clawing around his ribs and expanding with the force of lead weights. 

“True, I’m a bit fucked. Doesn’t mean I’m lying though.” 

His words take longer that usual to get out, syllables sticking together while Grantaire’s eyes droop a little. 

“You always lie when you’re fucked,” Enjolras says. “You never tell the truth about anything important.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grantaire says, shifting in place. “Be nice to me.” 

Enjolras sighs and kisses his temple. “I’m always nice.” 

“You’re funny,” Grantaire laughs, leaning more heavily into Enjolras’ side as his head drops forward. 

Enjolras stays quiet as Grantaire nods off for a while, but then it starts to feel like he’s sitting beside a ghost and discomfort creeps up his spine. 

"R,” Enjolras whispers, shaking him gently to get his attention. 

“Sorry,” Grantaire slurs, his hands coming up to rub clumsily at his eyes. 

“You have to quit one day. You can’t do this forever,” Enjolras says tentatively, unsure of whether it’s his place to make those kind of demands. He doesn’t think he’s doing it for himself, not when he so desperately wants Grantaire’s life to get better. He wants Grantaire to have a chance. 

The silence that follows is heavy and tense. 

"I know," he eventually mumbles. "It's just—" he stares at Enjolras with heavy-lidded eyes and it seems like he’s about to argue his case, but nothing comes. Grantaire just stops himself and turns to stare at the sky. 

"What is it?" 

"You don't understand." He sits up and drags his hands through his hair, pulling curls taut in frustration. "I won't be the person you think I am now. I’ll be someone else and I _hate_ that person.”

Enjolras recoils at the venom in his voice and looks away. Maybe it’s too much to ask. But he keeps thinking about what might happen if they go on like this, if one night Grantaire goes out and doesn’t come back, if someone finds him days later in a ditch. 

“You’ll still be the same person,” Enjolras says, teeth chattering in the cold. He looks at Grantaire and finds hard eyes looking back at him. “You could do so much; I know you could. I don’t want you to end up dead, but you will.” 

“Save me the lecture, yeah, because I’ve heard it a hundred times already,” Grantaire spits. “You don’t know anything, and you have no idea what you’re talking about. Do you really think you’ll want me when I’m spasming through cold sweats, or when you find me lying in my own vomit because I can’t get up? Maybe if you see me shit myself you’ll get over your stupid hero complex. I’ll be depressed and paranoid and I’ll hate you and then I’ll relapse. Is that what you’re dreaming of?” 

Enjolras’ stomach turns at the grim imagery that those descriptions conjure up, his imagination running wild with various scenarios of Grantaire writhing in pain and begging it to stop. Enjolras has been reading up on all kinds of drugs since he met Grantaire, just to keep up, but recently he’s been almost obsessive in his research of addiction and treatment. He knows all about withdrawal and heroin sickness from late nights on the internet when he can’t sleep, but talking about it makes the whole thing disturbingly real. 

He knows it would do something horrible to him as well – it would tear him down and push his limits and make him feel powerless and cruel – but he also knows that there’s only so long he can passively watch Grantaire self destruct. Enjolras helps people, that’s his _thing_ , he can’t bite his tongue when he knows things could be different. 

He brings a hand up to Grantaire’s face and feels how hot his cheeks are burning, then forces Grantaire's fingers out of their fist to slot between his own. "I could never think less of you for doing it," he says quietly, staying close so that their noses nearly touch. "You won't push me away. I'll always be right here, with you."

Grantaire snorts, and refuses to look Enjolras in the eye. "Don't make promises you can't keep." 

"I always keep my promises. Ask anyone." 

Grantaire squeezes Enjolras’ hand and sighs. “It’s too much to ask, it’s not fair on you.”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering.” Enjolras says seriously, before bringing their foreheads together. “And I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it.” 

“I don’t think I can do it,” Grantaire admits quietly, and it’s the most vulnerable Enjolras has seen him. 

“I know you can.” 

“I’m going to let you down. I’ve tried before and I can’t shake it, I always come back. You’re going to get hurt.” 

“I’m very resilient.” 

Grantaire laughs shakily, looking as though he’s on the brink of tears. “I want you to understand what you’re doing, because I don’t think you do. Remember the rules? When you kissed me on New Year’s you said you’d never lie about your feelings for me and you’d never do anything out of pity.” 

Enjolras pulls back a little and frowns. It’s been a while since he’s even thought about that stupid agreement they made in the dark. He slips both arms around Grantaire and pulls him close, hearing him sigh tiredly. 

“I never liked those rules,” Enjolras says quietly into Grantaire’s neck. He kisses his jaw, then his shoulder, and then his collarbone. 

Grantaire makes a pained sound but doesn’t move away. “You love rules. And you’re really killing me right now.” 

“I’m trying to do the opposite.” 

Grantaire flinches at that and removes Enjolras’ arms from around him, shrinking back into himself darkly. 

“You can’t save me. Nobody can,” he says tersely, before chewing his lip and staring at Enjolras with a sadness much older than his years. Softer, he adds, “Not even you.” 

“I’m trying to help you save yourself,” Enjolras pleads, willing Grantaire to come back to him. He reaches his hand out slowly, giving Grantaire more than enough time to slap it away, and he touches Grantaire’s neck with his fingertips. “Please just let me do that.” 

Grantaire sniffs and rubs at his nose with his sleeve, his shoulders slumped. But almost imperceptibly he pushes into Enjolras’ touch, and when he looks up his eyes are swimming with uncertainty. Enjolras kisses him just once, hoping that it conveys at least a little of the belief he has in Grantaire. He knows Grantaire is tough and capable of getting clean, even if it takes a few tries. 

Grantaire wipes his eyes and Enjolras pretends not to notice how watery they are. “Can I sleep with you tonight?” 

“Of course,” Enjolras says, brushing his fingers through Grantaire’s hair. “You can sleep next to the window if you want.” 

“Wow,” Grantaire laughs. “You must really feel sorry for me. I know how you feel about your window spot.” 

“Nah, I’m just well gone for you,” Enjolras grins, kissing Grantaire on the cheek before standing up and pulling him with him. 

“Yeah?” Grantaire asks, letting Enjolras tug him in close and wrap his arms around the small of his back. “This is pretty serious, you know. Saying you’re going to help me – that’s a big commitment. Like, a boyfriend kind of commitment.” 

Enjolras’ pulse speeds up and it takes him a second to realise that it’s Grantaire’s way of asking if he wants to be. He really, really does. He nods a little too enthusiastically, the tips of his ears burning. “I can definitely be a boyfriend.”

Grantaire presses his lips together, hiding a smile. “Would you give me everything I want?” 

Enjolras’ stomach knots up all tight. “You know I would.” 

Grantaire, surprised at the seriousness of his reply, swallows and looks away. “That’s awfully stupid of you.” 

“Maybe,” Enjolras says seriously, keeping a tight grip on Grantaire to keep him from bolting away. “I want to though.” 

Grantaire looks up at him, eyes round and hypnotising even in the darkness. “I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s okay.” Enjolras leads them towards his window and lets Grantaire go through first. 

Grantaire takes his coat off and folds it over the back of Enjolras’ chair, and then sits on the bed to unlace his boots. He puts them neatly next to the desk – much more so than Enjolras has ever seen him do in his own house. 

“It’s just,” Grantaire starts, taking off his jeans before accepting the jumper that Enjolras hands him. “You _do_ know what you want, so sometimes I feel like you’re waiting for me to catch up. And I don’t know if I ever will.” 

Enjolras is already in bed when Grantaire climbs over him and slips under the duvet. With a little bit of nudging he gets Grantaire to lie on his side so that Enjolras can curl around him, knees tucked up tight behind his. Grantaire’s skin is so cold that Enjolras has to repress a shiver at the feeling of them pressed together. 

“I really like us being together,” Enjolras says by Grantaire’s ear. “All I want is you, that’s it. I’m not waiting for anything.” 

Grantaire hums and seems content to go to sleep, his slow breathing quickly relaxing Enjolras until he suddenly feels exhausted. It’s just as he’s dozing off that Grantaire starts fidgeting, turning over to face Enjolras, his cheek pressed against his chest. 

“I’m scared,” he says quietly, so soft that Enjolras nearly misses it. 

“About what?” Enjolras asks through tiredness, his mind slow in catching up. 

Grantaire shifts closer and fits a leg between Enjolras’ until there’s no distance between them. “Getting clean.” 

“The withdrawal won’t last forever,” Enjolras yawns, getting a mouthful of Grantaire’s hair. 

“No.” Grantaire digs his fingers into the material of Enjolras top and doesn’t let go. “I mean life without heroin. I can’t just go back to how everything was before it, I don’t even know who I am without this. I don’t know how being clean is suddenly meant to fix anything.” 

There’s so much that Grantaire isn’t telling Enjolras, that much is clear. There are fears much bigger than heroin sickness at play here, ones that have him clinging to his addictions like a safety blanket. 

“Maybe it’s not about going back,” Enjolras says, struggling to find the words that might comfort him. “Maybe it’s about rebuilding everything again, doing it differently and letting change happen.” 

“What self-help book did you find that in,” Grantaire sniffs, curling his arm around Enjolras. 

“ _Hey_ , I’m being serious!”

Grantaire quickly shushes him and strokes up and down his spine. “I know you are.”

“You have to want to get better, or it won’t work.” 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything for a while, but he keeps rubbing his chin against Enjolras’ top. “You make me feel like I can do it. Like I can be better.”

They stay tangled up like that, limbs haphazardly interlocked as Grantaire eventually falls asleep. Usually he’s the one left awake – a chaotic sleeping pattern keeping him up at odd times and out of bed early in the mornings, easily found on the roof with coffee and a cigarette. But this time it’s Enjolras who struggles to unwind, his head far too preoccupied with the reality of helping someone through a heroin detox. 

He feels in over his head, desperate to help in any way possible, but still wildly out of depth. It’s not even a certainty that Grantaire will end up doing it, not with how ambivalent he sounds, but Enjolras doesn’t make a promise that he can’t keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahaha let the real angst begin i guess??? thanks 4 sticking around, i live for your comments please continue to talk to me!
> 
> i'm @hellavicky on twitter and [hufflepufffharry](http://hufflepufffharry.tumblr.com) on tumblr :-)


	21. coping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> grantaire is serious about getting clean and enjolras tries to keep up

Grantaire decides to go cold turkey. 

He claims that any other way is a total farce and doesn’t work. Enjolras looks around but only finds Feuilly shrugging with the air of someone who knows this to be true from experience.

He probably does; Grantaire had told Enjolras that he’s tried to quit loads of times but of course they all ended the same way: unsuccessful. It’s something he keeps absolutely to himself, but Enjolras wonders if Grantaire’s history of failed attempts to get clean suggest he would better off in rehab or a real programme. He tries not to think about it – the first and only time Enjolras very mildly brought rehab up, Grantaire reacted by pouring a pint of beer down his front before walking out of the Musain without a word. 

Enjolras isn’t keen for a repeat any time soon. 

He’s at Grantaire’s house, sitting in on a Serious House Meeting with him, Bahorel, and Feuilly. It’s definitely not an intervention, but more a chance to strategise how everyone can make Grantaire’s detox easier. Well, not easier, but more likely to succeed. Grantaire hates the whole thing of course, complaining that he doesn’t need 24-hour supervision, but when it comes down to it he’s outnumbered three to one. 

Grantaire tells them it’s just a matter of getting him through the sickness and withdrawal period, which he refuses to do without a large supply of Valium to make it more manageable. They all come to a consensus about that – benzos are allowed but all opiates of any kind are out for good. And whether he likes it or not, Grantaire is to indeed to be under house arrest with constant supervision. 

Enjolras tries to chip in on Feuilly and Bahorel’s rota of staying in the house with Grantaire, but he gets quickly shut down and assured that he doesn’t need to worry about anything. They have it sorted. It’s fine. Only not being involved makes Enjolras worry much more. 

Later, when Grantaire has gone to the bathroom, Feuilly tells him that Grantaire isn’t particularly keen on having Enjolras be a part of this thing. In other words, he’s probably pitched a fit or two. 

“He doesn’t want you to see that side of him. He’s convinced it will ruin everything and you won’t want to stick around,” Feuilly explains quietly, eyes darting to the door. 

“But we’ve talking about it. Several times,” Enjolras says in confusion. 

“It doesn’t matter. And if he’s going to get worked up about you being here then it’s a good idea not to push it. The withdrawal makes him anxious anyway, you know?” 

Enjolras’ mouth twists up but he begrudgingly agrees. He has to wait for Grantaire to come to him. But what if he doesn’t? 

When he voices this concern Bahorel makes a pained noise and pretends to gag. “You’re everything to him, he wouldn’t be doing this without you, et cetera. Trust me, you’ll get him back.” 

Grantaire comes back into the room shortly afterwards and they finalise the plan. Grantaire is to take his last hit of heroin on Friday, giving him the weekend before calling in sick to work on the Monday and returning when he can. It seems so clinical to set a time and date to it, but Enjolras supposes if they didn’t, it would never happen. 

Friday is two days away, and judging by the tension in the room everyone is well aware of that. It seems too sudden and too far away all at once, and nobody has much to say after that. Feuilly goes to bed and Enjolras stays up with Bahorel and Grantaire watching a movie that none of them pay attention to, Grantaire picking and biting at his nails next to Enjolras the entire time.

He follows Grantaire upstairs and they don’t try to fall asleep, knowing full well that this will be a sleepless night. They lie in bed pressed together, Grantaire doodling down the length of Enjolras’ arm in black biro and Enjolras trying in vain to French plait his hair. 

“Thanks,” Grantaire whispers. He doesn’t say anything else, just pulls Enjolras’ t-shirt up to his armpits and pins him down so he can write his own name on Enjolras’ chest. Right over his heart. 

Enjolras grabs him and pulls him up for a kiss, and there’s an unspoken desperation in it that has Grantaire pulling the t-shirt over Enjolras’ head and quickly taking his own off. It’s intimate and intense, the two of them staying tightly wrapped around each other as they shove their underwear down and grind slowly under the covers. 

It feels like a goodbye, but Enjolras isn’t quite sure what for. 

\-- 

By Monday morning Enjolras is going stir-crazy. 

He’s been lying awake all night, staring at the damp patches on the ceiling for so long he starts to feel like he’s losing his sanity, and he can’t stop thinking about Grantaire. He’s itching all over with the need to fix it, to do something that helps rather than just sitting around waiting for Grantaire to get better. 

There’s a layer of guilt there, reminding Enjolras that he was the one to bring up the idea of him getting clean in the first place, and now he’s not even there to help him through the worst of it. Through any of it, really. The guilt stews for a few slow moving hours, eating him up in the most excruciating way until the sky starts to lighten up and the sun filters into the room through the open blinds. 

Enjolras checks his watch - six AM – and sighs to himself. There’s no point in pretending to sleep any longer, he might as well get up. So he takes a scalding hot shower, changes his clothes, and brews a cup of tea. Then he grabs his coat and wallet and shuts the front door quietly behind him, squinting at the sky as he steps out into the empty street. 

He walks around aimlessly, not knowing what he hopes to achieve out of a tetchy early morning stroll. He finds a crumpled pack of cigarettes in his pocket from a long-gone night out and silently smokes his way through it, taking steps towards the high street without really meaning to. 

There’s a small florist a few yards away and Enjolras feels an unexplainable pull to it. He knows next to nothing about flowers even though Jehan is always talking about their meanings, but he’s never retained a single fact about them. He doesn’t even know what kind Grantaire likes best – if he likes them at all. 

Not that it matters. He doesn’t have the time or money to get anything arranged so he’ll just pick a bouquet up from the display outside. They can’t have been open long as only half of the display has been put out and not all of the lights are switched on. Undeterred, Enjolras takes a look at what’s out already. Roses are a definite no – even he knows that roses would be embarrassingly cliché and not at all his style – and the large bouquets of lilies and carnations are far too gaudy for his taste.

There’s a bunch hiding in the back that catches his eye: just over half a dozen sunflowers tied together at the stem, interspersed with a few red daisies. It’s eye-catching but understated, and Enjolras knows that they’re the right choice. He grabs them and goes through the door, flat out ignoring the closed sign hanging in the window to approach the only person in the shop. 

“Can I buy these?” Enjolras asks without preamble. 

The woman jumps and slaps a hand over her chest as she spins around to face him. “You scared the life out of me, Jesus Christ. We’re not open yet.” 

Enjolras thrusts the flowers towards her and gives her his most pathetic look. “I know, but I really need these now. It’s urgent.” 

She stares him down for a minute, thoroughly unimpressed as she looks from him to the flowers and back again, before rolling her eyes and striding over to the till. “Do you want them wrapped?” 

Enjolras shakes his head and digs around in his pocket for his wallet, juggling the flowers so he can pull out a tenner and hand it to her. 

“It’s half six in the morning, what’s so important? Pissed off a girlfriend?” 

“Boyfriend,” Enjolras corrects. “He’s not pissed off. He’s uh, unwell. It’s pretty bad.” 

The woman eyes oddly while she rings him up and hands him a few coins of change back. “Sounds like a lucky boy.” 

Enjolras catches her smiling like she knows something, which should by all accounts be weird but actually makes him feel better. He thanks her and leaves in a hurry as he crushes the receipt in his hand and leaves it to be forgotten about in his coat. 

He heads back with purpose, knowing what he needs to do. 

Or at least he thinks he knows when he walks straight up to Grantaire’s door and knocks firmly, flowers in hand and no actual semblance of a plan formed in his mind. It’s Feuilly who greets him, clutching a mug of black coffee as he squints at Enjolras with a slight frown. 

“Come in,” he says quietly, shaking his head and moving further into the hallway to let Enjolras through the door. “Nobody has ever shown up here at seven in the morning with a bunch of flowers. It’s quite unusual.”

Enjolras shuts the door behind him and shrugs one shoulder, looking at Feuilly helplessly. “I haven’t slept and I know don’t, I just wanted to do something for him. Anything.” 

Feuilly nods and runs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, gaze flitting towards the stairs before resting back on Enjolras thoughtfully. “He won’t want you to see him. He spent most of the night throwing up and spasming on the bathroom floor and wouldn’t come out.”

Enjolras’ face falls and he clutches the flowers a little tighter. “Please.”

“He’s still in peak withdrawal right now. He probably hasn’t even slept a wink.” Feuilly says with a slight wince. Then he pauses, takes another look at Enjolras’ sorry figure and sighs. “But seeing you might be good for him. You know what he’s like though, he’s vulnerable right now, he’s scared.” Feuilly takes a sip of coffee and scratches at the stubble on his jaw. “Go on, he’s in bed.” 

Shocked that Feuilly have given him the all-clear before he even started to beg, Enjolras forgets how to move. He’s glued to the spot, eyes travelling up the staircase, while Feuilly hides a small smirk and slopes off into the kitchen silently. Enjolras stands there for another minute, gulping around the lump in his throat as he thinks of something to say when he opens Grantaire’s door. He hasn’t thought this through at all – just saw those sunflowers and felt such a strong need to be here.

He takes the stairs slowly, hyperaware of every creak his weight makes, passing Bahorel’s snores on the second floor until he’s standing in front of Grantaire’s door with his heart hammering away nervously. He knocks softly but doesn’t wait for a reply before edging the door open and slipping inside, closing it behind him straight away. 

The room sits in half-darkness, the pale light of early morning bleeding easily through Grantaire’s poor excuse for curtains, and it looks messier than Enjolras has ever seen it. Most of the floor is covered and Enjolras can hazard a guess that Grantaire had thrashed the place at some point. The shelves are empty but books lie scattered about the room, and Enjolras sees bits of broken glass from a smashed bottle at the far end. 

“R,” Enjolras says, voice scratchy. He goes over to the bed and sits on the edge of the mattress. “It’s me, Enjolras.” 

What appears to be a pile of trembling sheets, is actually Grantaire. He takes some time to emerge from them, cheap cotton tangled around his sweaty limbs, and he looks like pure agony. 

“Go away,” he says, terrified and shivering. “You can’t be here.” 

Enjolras’ brain short-circuits and he ends up shoving the flowers in Grantaire’s face without a word, hoping he’ll get the idea and calm down. Grantaire freezes, actually, stops dead in his tracks before prying them out of Enjolras’ hand so he can stare down at them like he’s never seen a sunflower before. He looks back at Enjolras like he doesn’t believe he’s really here, then back to the sunflowers with a frown. 

Grantaire buries his nose in them and sniffs and Enjolras can’t hold it in any longer, he just starts talking and has no idea what he’s even saying, but he has to fill the silence with something. He blabbers on about how he’d tried really hard to respect Grantaire’s wishes in keeping him out of this, but couldn’t sleep not knowing and had bought the flowers on a whim and he doesn’t know if Grantaire likes them but it doesn’t matter because he’s not leaving. 

To his credit, Grantaire just blinks at him. Enjolras snaps his mouth shut, his cheeks hot and knee bouncing up and down as he takes another long look at Grantaire. His hair is plastered flat to his forehead with sweat and he looks exhausted, dark circles rimming his eyes. Enjolras pushes the hair out of his eyes and combs it back with his fingers, before pressing a chaste kiss to Grantaire’s dry and cracked lips. 

He gets up and grabs a jar from Grantaire’s desk filled with dirty paint water, then disappears to the bathroom for a minute to wash it out and fill it with clean water. Grantaire hasn’t moved an inch when he comes back into the room and sets it down on the bedside table. Enjolras takes the flowers from him and sets them in the jar, spreading them all out nicely. Then he toes his shoes off, drops his coat to the floor, and climbs into bed beside Grantaire, pressing up behind him so he can hold him tightly against the muscle twitches and tremors. 

Grantaire must be too tired to put up a fight since he lets Enjolras move him where he wants. Once they’re settled he reaches out to pluck a sunflower from the jar, and he fiddles with it silently while Enjolras presses his face into the back of his neck. Grantaire brushes the petals up and down Enjolras’ forearm, before turning over and tickling Enjolras’ cheek with it.

“You’re not annoyed are you?” Enjolras asks tentatively, resisting the urge to sneeze when Grantaire starts stroking the flower across his nose. 

Grantaire presses his lips together and looks down, before putting the flower down between them. He slides a hand up the back of Enjolras’ shirt and pulls him even closer, hugging him so tightly that they can hardly breathe.

“No, I’m not.” 

Enjolras stays until he’s late for work, and leaving is the hardest thing he’s had to do. 

\-- 

Enjolras can’t say he’s surprised when it becomes apparent that Grantaire is stringently avoiding him. A part of him is hurt and wants to blame him, wants to point fingers and accuse him of being selfish, but a bigger part of him knows that it couldn’t be further from the truth. Grantaire doesn’t like to be vulnerable, and that’s exactly what he is right now. 

So Enjolras tries to go about life normally and wait for Grantaire to come back to him, but it’s easier said than done. He sees everyone else, but Grantaire is always pointedly absent, his lack of presence leaving a loud hole in the group. Everybody feels it but nobody wants to talk about it, and Grantaire’s name is barely spoken at all. 

Feuilly and Bahorel are the exception of course, but their updates on Grantaire are limited to quiet corners and sporadic texts. Enjolras can’t thank them enough, knowing that without them he would be flying completely blind and imagining all sorts of terrible situations that Grantaire could be getting into. Mostly it allows him to give Grantaire space though, which is an invaluable gift when Enjolras is so prone to neuroticism. With the assurance that Grantaire is safe, still clean, and even back at work, Enjolras can give him the breathing room that he wants without driving himself crazy.

But after a week Enjolras’ willpower hits a little bump, and he’s worked himself into a paranoid mess over the idea that Grantaire probably thinks he’s abandoned him and doesn’t care. On Saturday evening Enjolras is pacing around anxiously, phone clenched in his clammy palm as he decides what he should do. A phone call might be too much – it would put Grantaire on the spot, and appearing at his bedroom window is definitely out of the question. 

Text it is then. 

He sits on the edge of his bed and nearly bites a hole into his lip from worrying it so much, fretting over what to type. It seems so silly, getting into a state over what to text his boyfriend, but they’re in the middle of something so important and potentially life-changing. Sometimes words don’t seem like they’re enough. 

_I’m thinking about you…hope you’re ok. I’m here whenever you’re ready x_  

Enjolras presses send before he can chicken out, and relief washes over his anxiety like a cheap comfort blanket. He tosses his phone aside and sits on top of his hands to stop himself from obsessively refreshing his messages, and tries to count the cracks on the wall instead. 

He reaches nine before his phone starts ringing, and he scrambles to retrieve it and stares at the screen intently when he sees it’s Grantaire. He almost forgets to answer, fingers clumsy as he swipes across the screen to pick up before the call goes to voicemail. 

“Hello?” 

“Um, hey. Are you busy?” 

Grantaire sounds nervous, which is completely ridiculous. 

“No,” Enjolras says, shuffling further back onto his bed so he can bring his knees up to his chest. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I just—” Grantaire pauses, then snorts quietly to himself. “I wanted to hear your voice.” 

“That’s really corny,” Enjolras says, but he’s grinning from ear to ear and his stomach somersaults. “I’m glad you called.” 

It’s not exactly awkward, but it’s obvious that they’ve never really done this, never called each other just to talk about their days and have an aimless conversation. They’ve never needed to – they’re together so often and when they’re not they’re usually busy and have their hands full with something else. And that’s nice, it’s amazing to have Grantaire at his fingertips and be able to sit out on the roof with him in the middle of the night just to talk, and that they’re friends with the same people but still know how to be comfortable apart. But this is nice too, to hear his voice on the phone after a week of silence, to picture him lying in bed in his own room. 

“There’s this new guy at work that I’ve been training and he’s so pretentious, it’s awful. You’d probably love him though; he permanently carries around a copy of the Communist Manifesto.” 

Enjolras laughs and closes his eyes, picturing Grantaire in the art shop side-eyeing some poor boy wearing tortoise shell glasses and a rollneck. Then again, that could be an accurate description of Combeferre. “I hope you’re being nice to him.” 

“I’m nice to everyone,” Grantaire sighs. “Although he is particularly getting on my nerves. He obviously wants to be pals which is fine, but I’ve not been feeling very friendly this week.” 

Enjolras bites his lip and listens to the loaded silence that follows. Then he jumps up and stares at the window. “Do you want to come over? I’m about to cook dinner and we could watch telly.” 

“Right now?” Grantaire says after a pause. 

“Well, yeah, right now. Unless you’re doing something else or don’t want to.” 

Grantaire hums to himself as he mulls it over for a few seconds. “Alright. Give me fifteen minutes.” He hangs up before Enjolras can respond.

Enjolras drops his phone and springs into action, chucking things into the corners of his room to give some semblance of tidiness. He even makes the bed and moves all of the dirty clothes from his desk chair into the laundry bin. The next ten minutes are spent walking stupidly around the house, moving things that don’t need to be moved just to keep his hands occupied and to slow his racing thoughts. He brushes his teeth, puts the oven on, changes his top, and then the doorbell finally rings. 

When Enjolras opens the door and sees Grantaire standing in front of him, all of the nervous energy stops; his chest finally unclenches, his fingers stop aching, and the tight set of his shoulders settles down.

“Hi,” Grantaire says with a weak smile. He looks tired and it shows in his face, the repeated sleepless nights evident in pronounced bags under his eyes. 

“Hi.” 

Grantaire takes a step towards Enjolras and tries to squeeze past him into the hallway but Enjolras envelops him in a crushing hug before he manages to get very far. Grantaire sighs and squeezes Enjolras back just as tightly, and they stand still like that for a long time until Grantaire pulls back.

“How are you?” Enjolras asks, eyes flitting all over Grantaire’s face to catch even the slightest flicker of expression. 

“I’ve been better,” Grantaire says easily, but lacking in energy. 

Enjolras’ heart twinges a little, but he still can’t bear to move them on yet. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.” 

Grantaire looks away. “Well I haven’t really felt like myself lately.” 

Enjolras nods understandingly, his eyes glued to Grantaire. He doesn’t want another deflection. “How are you doing though?” 

“I’m opiate free,” Grantaire smiles, only there’s no emotion behind it, just a quirk of his lips. 

Enjolras’ eyebrows pull together and he frowns as he lifts a hand to Grantaire’s face, brushing the hair away from his forehead to get a better look at him. It reminds him of the last time they saw each other, when Enjolras had done the same thing. 

 Grantaire looks run down and exhausted, like he can’t wait to collapse onto a soft surface and never get up. Like he’s five steps away from giving up. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Grantaire says, perking up a little. “I’m fine, just a bit out of sorts. Can we go in now?” 

Enjolras watches him a little longer before he lets Grantaire go, shutting the door behind them as they move into the kitchen. Grantaire walks around curiously as though he expects something to have changed in the time since he’s last been here, eventually settling down in a chair at the table to unlace his boots and kick them out of sight. 

“Thought you were cooking dinner?” He asks suspiciously, sparing another look towards the kitchen before eyeing up Enjolras. 

“I am,” Enjolras says sheepishly, coming further into the room and taking the chair opposite Grantaire’s. “There’s pizza in the oven.” 

Grantaire rolls his eyes and shakes his head in disbelief. “I should have known it was too good to be true.” 

“I have you know I’m getting much better,” Enjolras says, tipping his chin up. 

“What,” Grantaire laughs, “has your repertoire extended to include cheesy pasta? Egg on toast?” 

Enjolras balls up a piece of paper lying on the table and throws it at Grantaire’s face, catching him right on the forehead. “Feuilly taught me how to do a stir-fry, so there.” 

“Easiest dish in the world,” Grantaire scoffs, waving his hand in the air dismissively. “Sometimes I wonder how you made it this far in life.” 

Enjolras lets that slide in favour of simply enjoying the view of Grantaire sitting in front him, joking around like everything is completely normal. In the days leading up to this Enjolras has been worrying that something might change, that something between them might not feel the same and Grantaire would decide he didn’t want this. It wasn’t an entirely irrational thought, he doesn’t think, but the relief of disproving it is nothing short of wonderful. 

They spend the evening sprawled in the sofa eating pizza and watching conspiracy documentaries at Grantaire’s insistence, and Enjolras is positive that he’s choosing the most ridiculous and far-reaching ones to watch but he doesn’t say anything, finding himself getting far too involved in them all anyway. Grantaire loves it, gasping dramatically all the time and slapping Enjolras repeatedly when a scene becomes tense and reveals something particularly intriguing. At one point he accidentally slams his fist into Enjolras’ dick when he gets _really_ overexcited, shushing Enjolras’ groan of pain and turning the volume up to drown him out. 

Combeferre comes downstairs a while later to heat up some food and joins them for a bit, and Enjolras is beyond grateful that he doesn’t once bring up the subject of drugs or detox, instead telling Grantaire all about the evening classes he’s started taking in healthcare. He claims he has a lot of work to be getting on with but once Enjolras switches the channel to NatGeo Wild there’s little to no hope that Combeferre will be leaving anytime soon. 

By the time it hits midnight everybody is yawning and ready to slump up the stairs to bed. They switch off all the lights and leave a pile of dirty plates and mugs to deal with in the morning and Combeferre mumbles goodnight to them as he slips into his room and closes the door. Enjolras trudges into the bathroom and lets Grantaire follow him in, both of them crowding in front of the sink to brush their teeth. 

It’s blissfully domestic and has warmth flooding through Enjolras’ body, knowing that Grantaire has his own toothbrush here that sits right next to Jehan’s, and that he reaches for Enjolras’ mouthwash without a moment’s hesitation. Everything about them is so complicated but Grantaire still seems to slot into Enjolras’ life like it was always meant to be that way; because even though they clash they still fit together seamlessly somehow. Enjolras doesn’t know how or why exactly, but the reasons don’t matter when he gets to feel like this.

They go up to Enjolras’ room and strip out of their trousers, Grantaire flopping face-down onto the bed while Enjolras puts some things away and switches the overhead light off, leaving them in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. 

“Can I use your laptop for a sec?” Grantaire asks, voice muffled against a pillow. 

“Sure,” Enjolras says, not bothering to pretend he doesn’t know that Grantaire already worked out his password a while ago. He leaves him to it, closing the blinds and setting an alarm on his phone for the morning. 

When he joins Grantaire in bed, he’s sitting up with his legs crossed and Enjolras’ laptop on the duvet in front of him. He doesn’t seem to mind Enjolras mindlessly watching him check Facebook notifications and reply to messages, going about his business with Enjolras’ head resting on his shoulder. Cosette has tagged them in a photo – one from two weeks ago of Grantaire drunkenly tying Enjolras’ hair into a silly top knot in the smoking area of a nightclub. 

Enjolras smiles, his heart feeling bigger than his body as Grantaire chuckles and leaves a sarcastic comment. 

“Can I tell you something?”

“Anything,” Grantaire says seriously, though he doesn’t look away from the laptop. 

“You know how I’m gay?”

“Actually I had no idea,” he says deadpan, gaze still glued to the screen as he logs into his email account. 

“Christ, let me finish,” Enjolras mutters with a roll of his eyes. “I think I always knew that I wasn’t interested in girls like other people were, like Courfeyrac and Combeferre and everybody at school was. I knew that I liked boys more than I was supposed to…looking at them and thinking about them and watching the rugby team even though I hated rugby.” 

“Sounds familiar,” Grantaire smirks. 

“Well no, because that was it. I never had a boyfriend because I liked looking at attractive men but I’d never felt anything more than that. Not until you, obviously.” 

Grantaire is quiet for a bit before giving Enjolras a curious look. “So what – you mean you’d never fancied anyone before?” 

“Of course I fancied people…I had a massive crush on Courfeyrac’s older brother, Seb,” Enjolras mumbles staring at the opposite wall as his cheeks heat up. “Which nobody needs to know about, thank you.” 

“Courfeyrac has been hiding his attractive older brother from me?” 

Enjolras decides to ignore him and carry on. “I also fancied my sixth form Politics teacher quite a lot. I made a right twat of myself at the leavers’ ball when I was two sheets to the wind and tried to flirt with him.” 

“You were quite the minx, I’m gathering.” Grantaire turns to look at him slyly, wiggling his eyebrows when Enjolras scowls at him. 

“Anyway, it just wasn’t the same,” Enjolras continues. “I think I only really liked the idea of people; they were always amazing and brilliant in my head but they always disappointed me or I’d get bored in the end. But I’ve never had that with you. When we’re together I’ve never been uninterested, and when I think about you it’s like my mind’s already made itself up without me. I couldn’t feel indifferent if I tried.” 

“I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment or not to be honest,” Grantaire says lowly.

“It’s definitely a compliment.” Enjolras finds Grantaire’s hand and interlaces their fingers. “It means my heart or head or whatever is stuck on you, and I’ve never felt that before. I’ve never had feelings for someone that won’t budge…and I think I’m in love with you.” 

Grantaire stares for a few seconds and swallows. “What?” 

Enjolras pretends to concentrate on Grantaire’s emails before he realises that he really doesn’t want to brush this off as nothing, even though he’s trying very hard not to spook Grantaire. He grips Grantaire’s hand tighter and turns his head to face him.

“I’m in love with you.” 

Grantaire squeezes his hand back even tighter, his fingers clamping around Enjolras’ like a vice. He looks speechless and Enjolras is about to backtrack until Grantaire leans forward and mashes his face into Enjolras neck, the force of it pushing him onto his back. 

“Why?” Grantaire asks quietly, his body half on top on Enjolras as he fiddles with a loose stitch on his shirt.

Pins and needles are already starting to infiltrate Enjolras’ arm but he refuses to pull his hand out of Grantaire’s, even if that means a numb limb. “I don’t know. There isn’t a reason, I just feel it.”

Grantaire squirms, his frown screwing up against Enjolras’ skin. “How can you love me without a reason.” 

“Do you not believe me?” 

Nobody says anything, and Enjolras holds his breath for the truth to crack the air like a whip. 

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, quiet and sad. “I’m ruining it and making it weird. It’s meant to be nice and I’m fucking it up.” 

“It’s okay, you’re not,” Enjolras sighs, and he really means it. He suspects Grantaire’s reaction doesn’t have much to do with him, but is rooted in something much deeper, much more encompassing and overwhelming. 

Enjolras pushes them onto their sides so his arm can get some relief and he can hold Grantaire’s other hand properly, their linked fingers lying pressed between their chests. 

“I love you because you’re you,” Enjolras says softly, his vision blurring from watching Grantaire at so close a distance. “I care about you so much and it’s cheesy, but nobody has ever made me feel like this before. I think I might have loved you for a while and I tried to pretend I didn’t, but I don’t want to do that anymore.” 

Grantaire doesn’t respond for a few minutes, his eyes lowered but open and watching the place where their hands join and Enjolras’ thumb keeps rubbing his. 

“Let’s go to sleep,” Grantaire says eventually, but his voice is still small and Enjolras is still unsure that he did the right thing in telling him. 

Enjolras nods, grabbing his laptop and moving it to the floor before pulling the covers up around them. Once again, he finds it hard to fall asleep that night. 

\-- 

Grantaire is gone when Enjolras wakes up, the other side of the bed already cold from where he’s left. Enjolras rubs his eyes vigorously and makes a frustrated sound, wondering if he really did jump the gun with dropping the L-bomb so soon. 

There’s one good thing though, and it’s that Grantaire left a parting gift. A carefully folded paper crane perched on the window sill next to the bed. When Enjolras finally notices it, his vision still blurry with sleep, he picks it up to inspect it. Grantaire’s handwriting adorns one wing, with small letters spelling out _sorry_. Enjolras sighs and turns it around in his hands before flopping back down and resting the crane on his chest. He falls asleep for a few more minutes and feels marginally better when he wakes up again.

  

That night, Courfeyrac rounds the troops and organises a big night at The Corinthe. Pre-drinks are happening at their place and the whole group – minus Musichetta, unfortunately – is set to show up. Grantaire had tried to duck out, saying that he didn’t feel up to anything and couldn’t be bothered, and Enjolras instantly went into a panic that it was about him and last night. He kept it to himself though, and tried to convince Courfeyrac to let Grantaire be when he kept badgering him into coming. 

He secretly hopes that Grantaire does choose to make an appearance, but he doesn’t want to pressure him. 

Then the time comes and everyone is crowded into their living room, drinking cheap cans of lager and chugging disgusting spirits with loud music playing and all Enjolras can think about is Grantaire. The lack of Grantaire. He knows depression and anxiety both hit hard after a heroin detox, and considering Grantaire’s history it’s easy enough for Enjolras to assume those are the reasons that Grantaire has bunked off. It could have nothing to do with him. 

He tries not to seem too disappointed and makes the most of everybody else being there when recently their schedules have all been hard to coordinate. He talks to Feuilly about history and watches Jehan and Bahorel engage in an arm wrestling tournament, and he even spends a while catching up with Marius and finds himself having a good time. 

Underneath that, Enjolras has resigned himself to the fact that Grantaire isn’t going to show, that he’s locked everyone out and has sunk deeper into quiet solitude, when there’s a sudden touch of fingers at the back of his neck. He jumps a little, his head snapping around to see Grantaire with his keys still dangling off one finger as he looks at Enjolras strangely. 

It takes a second for Enjolras to realise that strange is actually _scared_ , and Grantaire looks just as small as he did last night, this time swallowed by an old army surplus jumper that looks about three sizes too large. 

“Hey,” Enjolras says belatedly, dumbly even, but Grantaire looks as though he hardly slept and Enjolras loves him. There are a lot of things happening at once and predictably the entire room melts away into white noise whilst Enjolras’ heart hammers away. He pats his thigh and smiles at Grantaire encouragingly, “Come on then.” 

“What are you drinking?” Grantaire asks, his arm sliding around Enjolras neck when he’s unceremoniously yanked by the hem of the jumper into Enjolras’ lap. 

Enjolras proffers up his drink and links his hands together at Grantaire’s waist, hoping he won’t run off. Grantaire takes one large sip before spraying half of it back out of his mouth as he gags, then splutters, “That is fucking disgusting.” 

Even though Grantaire mostly drenches himself, Enjolras still stares at him darkly for catching his new Breton jumper - a lovely high necked thing that _no_ , he could not actually afford, but still bought anyway. 

“It’s not that strong. You drink vodka like a fish,” Enjolras says slowly, looking on as Grantaire wipes his chin with his sleeve. 

“I don’t think fish typically drink vodka, actually.” Grantaire stops patting uselessly at his soggy jumper and grins at Enjolras, already back to his usual ways after a wary entry. “What was that shite? Dr Pepper?” 

Enjolras can’t help but squeeze his arms tighter around Grantaire when he wrinkles his nose and puts the glass on the table, pushing it away as though it’s cursed. Enjolras almost feels bad about how quickly his mood has lifted too, after inflicting his sour grump on everybody all day long. 

“Cherry coke,” Enjolras says, nodding towards the two litre bottle hidden among the mess of mixers on the table. 

“I can’t believe you,” Grantaire cries loudly, “I’m divorcing you and I want full custody of Courfeyrac.” 

Enjolras’ smile grows, his cheeks already warm with delight. “Courfeyrac loves cherry coke too.” 

“Guilty!” Courfeyrac calls from the back door, where he’s cupping his hands around the flame of a lighter for Jehan.

Grantaire’s face falls instantly, his expression serious. “Well I’m taking Jehan then.” 

“Will I get two birthdays and Christmases?” He asks around a white plume of smoke. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Yes, but you have to love me more than Enjolras.”  
The sound of the L-word sends Enjolras into tunnel vision, honing right in on Grantaire and how much he loves him and that he actually told him. Grantaire didn’t reject him _per se_ – he could have told Enjolras to piss off and forget it – he was just extremely and unusually quiet about the whole thing. It’s probably a lot to process though, especially for someone like Grantaire, who seems to doubt any form of genuine compassion shown to him. 

Enjolras has loved a lot of people – family, friends, animals, teachers – but he’s never been _in_ love before, which makes everything between Grantaire and him feel particularly special, even if there is a small undercurrent of stress there. Nobody has ever told him how to be in love with somebody, and it’s a touch frightening, but in an exhilarating sense. 

“Well you’re the fun parent,” Jehan says, cutting through Enjolras’ thoughts. “So I’m sure that won’t be hard.” 

Grantaire turns to look at Enjolras smugly, and he’s sure that everything is going to be alright.

  

It’s at The Corinthe that Enjolras comes to retract that statement, a dark cloud settling over him as he watches Grantaire grow more maudlin with every drink. Even though the switch of his mood occurs too quickly for any of them to catch as it happens, it’s as though Enjolras helplessly watches it unfold in slow motion. Grantaire smiles less, and when he does his eyes remain vacant and distracted. He talks Jehan’s ear off, but says uncomfortable things with such light flippancy that Feuilly drags him outside for a few minutes under the pretence of a cigarette. 

They still have a good time, and everybody is laughing and joking and it could really be any other night, only Enjolras is certain that they all feel it too, the bad mood that envelops Grantaire and leaves him radiating a tense, harsh energy. Only he’s so skilled at pulling at the strings of his friends, able to divert concern away from him whilst acting up as the centre of attention to distract everybody. It almost works. 

Enjolras, for once, is suspiciously quiet. He’s been counting Grantaire’s drinks and debating when he should tell him to slow down and take it easy. He knows how that will pan out though – with Grantaire storming off to drink twice as much. So he doesn’t say anything yet, but he does keep a vigilant eye on him. 

“Are you alright?” Combeferre asks, shuffling his chair closer to Enjolras so that he doesn’t need to speak too loudly. “You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself very much.” 

Enjolras looks at his drink, barely touched and warm, and he has to agree. “Grantaire is really going at it tonight.” 

“That’s nothing new,” Combeferre says evenly, glancing towards him at the other end of the table from the corner of his eye. 

“He’ll be paralytic by the end of the night if he keeps it up,” Enjolras says, his cool exterior serving him well. His insides are a different matter, jumpy and anxious, and he takes a large pull of his drink to distract from it. “We shouldn’t have pressured him into coming with us.” 

Combeferre laughs and gives Enjolras a sceptical look, even behind foggy glasses. “The day Grantaire does something he doesn’t want to, is the day I elope with Courfeyrac and disappear into the sunset.”

“It’s not funny,” Enjolras retorts with a hard glare in Combeferre’s direction. “He’s probably trying to compensate for the heroin and he’s going to make himself ill.” 

“I never said it was it was funny,” Combeferre says, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. “But he’s an adult so you should stop sulking and talk to him.” 

Enjolras hates when Combeferre is right, which unfortunately is the majority of the time. It’s all just logic to him, deciphering the tricky bits of Grantaire’s behaviour and acting in accordance, but with Enjolras so many things seem to cloud his head when he tries the same approach. 

Combeferre gets bored of him easily and starts chatting to Éponine instead, but at least he stays by Enjolras’ side for moral support while he thinks of something inoffensive to say to Grantaire. The man in question – overgrown boy, really – is perched atop the table as Jehan attempts to read his palm, Grantaire’s hand outstretched towards him as he squints in the low light of the bar. When Jehan gives up and tries to drag him out back into the smoking area, Grantaire nearly smacks his face on the ground. As Jehan pulls him from the table he lands on the floor and instantly loses his footing, and if Jehan had caught him a second later he absolutely would have stacked it. 

Enjolras finishes his drink and tries to keep up with Éponine and Combeferre’s conversation, but he’s mostly waiting for Grantaire to come back so that he came take him aside and suggest they go home. It probably won’t go the way he wants it to, just as anything involving Grantaire is liable to do, but he can’t put it off any longer. He’s been loud and brash and particularly biting when talking about himself, and Enjolras doesn’t want it going on for any longer. 

He finds himself waiting longer than expected, but he understands once Grantaire returns with a fresh double whiskey in hand. Enjolras doesn’t wait for him to sit down, knowing it’s better to intercept him on the way to their group, and he catches him a few feet away while he’s still walking. 

“Hey,” Enjolras says, stepping in front of him. “I’ve barely spoken to you tonight.” 

Grantaire smiles, his eyes unfocused and cheeks flushed. “Come sit with me then.”

Enjolras tries to smile back at him but he knows it looks forced. Putting a hand on Grantaire’s waist, he guides them a little further away from their friends where the room is less crowded. “How are you feeling?” 

“Fine,” Grantaire answers tight-lipped, eyes darting around him. 

“Yeah?” 

Grantaire nods tersely, but when Enjolras reaches out his other hand to steady him he pushes past and goes rushing towards the entrance of the pub. Enjolras stands blinking in confusion for a beat, before he follows in Grantaire’s direction and slips outside. 

At first Enjolras assumes he’s bolted but a loud retching noise leads him to Grantaire doubled over in the street, supporting himself with an outstretched arm against the wall of the bar. Enjolras quickly strides towards him while he throws up for a while longer, and he squeezes Grantaire’s shoulder tightly once they’re next to each other. It’s a testament to how drunk Grantaire is that he doesn’t shake Enjolras off immediately, only managing a pained groan once he’s finished. Enjolras turns him around and checks his jumper and leather jacket for puke stains, but luckily Grantaire is in the clear. 

“Fuck,” Grantaire says scratchily, his throat raw. “Go on, say it.” 

“Say what?” 

Grantaire wobbles precariously and looks away, his eyes red rimmed and bloodshot. “That I’m a disgusting mess.” 

Enjolras sighs and shakes his head, manoeuvring Grantaire around the corner of the building so that they can sit down without the stench of sick next to them. He hates that Grantaire would even assume Enjolras’ reaction would be so unforgiving – it would be cruel to say anything of the sort to Grantaire in this state. 

“I’m not going to say that.” Enjolras leans his head against the wall and turns to look at Grantaire’s miserable figure. “I’m not thinking it either.” 

“Thanks, but somehow I doubt it.” 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Grantaire inhaling the fresh air slowly and deeply while Enjolras tries to get his words together, until the quiet becomes too delicate to consider breaking. 

Grantaire beats him to it. 

“I keep thinking about this stuff that I’m meant to be over, but I miss her.”

“What? Who?” Enjolras asks, placing his hand between Grantaire’s shoulder blades. 

Grantaire puts his head between his knees and holds his arms around himself before saying, “My sister.” 

Enjolras freezes. He had expected Grantaire to say his mother because he’s never mentioned a sister before – nobody has. The revelation takes Enjolras by surprise and for a few moments all he can do is keep rubbing circles into Grantaire’s back. “I didn’t know you had a sister.” 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, wonder boy,” Grantaire snorts. “She’s called Clemmie.” 

“Short for Clementine?” 

“No,” Grantaire laughs quietly, lighting his head enough to smile at Enjolras briefly. “For Clémence. I did used to hide oranges in all her drawers though.”

Enjolras smiles back and shuffles closer to Grantaire so that they’re pressed tightly together. “How old is she?” 

“Éponine’s age, turning eighteen this week. Sixteen the last time I saw her.” 

“Have you thought about seeing each other again?” Enjolras asks carefully as he threads his fingers through the back of Grantaire’s hair. “I’m sure you could reconnect.”

Grantaire laughs again, though this time it’s a cold and humourless sound that makes Enjolras’ skin prickle. Grantaire keeps his head down. “I’ve done things. Things she wouldn’t forgive me for.” 

A tense silence follows, weighted ominously with what Grantaire decides not to divulge. 

“Have you hurt anyone on purpose?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire grumbles a sound that sounds something like _no_ so he continues. “Then whatever it is, she’ll forgive you. She’s your sister.” 

Grantaire scoffs and manages to sit up, his head knocking back against the wall as he leans against it. “And I’m her big brother, I’m meant to be there for her and protect her. Instead I ran away to stick needles in my arms and fuck my way through the whole of London.” 

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Enjolras chides gently. 

“What?” Grantaire’s head lolls to the side, resting on his shoulder while he gives Enjolras a self-deprecating smirk. “It’s true, isn’t it?” 

“Don’t say things like that.” 

“You don’t know me at all,” Grantaire says steadily, his eyes soft and forehead pinched. “You’d run miles if you knew.” 

He’s scaring Enjolras now, with how sincere and adoring he looks as he says these cryptically foreboding things like they’re nothing at all. Enjolras wills his nerves to settle down, for the alarm bells to stop ringing around the inside of his head, for everything to calm down and be okay. He wants it to be ridiculous drunk-talk, but he knows it’s not. 

“There’s something you’re not telling me. What is it? What have you done?” 

“What most addicts on the street end up doing,” Grantaire says with a sharp twist to his mouth. He hesitates as though he’s not sure whether to keep going, but he does. “Fucking for a bit of cash. Fucking for a bag of drugs. That sort of thing.” 

Enjolras manages not to let his jaw hit the floor, clenching it tightly instead. It’s a thought he never allowed himself to consider. 

“Anyway, I don’t do that anymore. I’ve stopped—I haven’t since—” 

“Since Feuilly?” 

Grantaire looks away and shakes his head. “After Feuilly. I had to pay him back, couldn’t let him pay for everything.” 

“ _R_.” It’s all he can say, and it pains him to do it. 

“Don’t,” Grantaire warns, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “It’s just not the kind of thing you tell your sister though, is it?” 

Enjolras hates to agree but it’s true. “I suppose it’s not, no.” 

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll probably never speak to her again,” Grantaire mutters.

“Why?” Enjolras lets his hand slip down to Grantaire’s neck, resting it there in what he hopes to be a comforting presence. 

“When my dad kicked me out he changed the locks, the landline, everything. He even got her a new mobile number.” 

“Didn’t she ever call you? Send you a text?” Enjolras frowns. 

“At first,” Grantaire shrugs. “She didn’t know what had happened and I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t tell her that I’d fucked up so badly that I got kicked out of university for drugs, or the stuff about dad. They got on well and it wouldn’t have been fair for me to ruin something else – to kill the last shred of family that she’s got.”

“So you pushed her away?” Enjolras guesses. 

“Maybe, yeah. I chucked my phone away with my portfolio. Now I have no idea where she is or what she’s doing.” 

While Grantaire stares intently at nothing, his face sombre but betraying little, Enjolras wraps his arm around him properly and pulls Grantaire in, kissing the top of his forehead. “None of those things make you a bad person. None of them.” 

Grantaire scoffs but lets Enjolras hold him against his chest, uncaring of everyone who walks past their folded up bodies on the damp pavement. “Don’t lie for me, I know you’re squirming inside.” 

“Don’t presume to know anything I’m feeling,” Enjolras replies firmly. “I don’t lie to spare anyone’s feelings, and maybe that’s not a good thing, but it’s not what I do.” 

Grantaire’s limbs soften and he goes limp in Enjolras’ grasp, emitting a frustrated sigh. “I’m going home; you should find the others.” 

“As if I’m letting you go off alone. I’m coming with you.” 

Grantaire pulls away and unsteadily tries to get to his feet, falling over himself in the process and ending right back down on the ground. “I’ve been much worse.” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and stands up, his knees cracking, before he holds out both hands for Grantaire to take and pull himself up. “That’s what worries me.” 

“Don’t let me ruin your night,” Grantaire says stubbornly, swaying back and forth once he’s standing. “I shouldn’t have come out anyway.” 

Enjolras grabs the front of Grantaire’s jacket and kisses him, sending them knocking back into the cool bricks of the wall behind them. Grantaire seems shocked, stumbling with his arms hanging by his side, and he only lets Enjolras kiss him for a couple of seconds. 

“My breath stinks of vomit.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m taking you home.”

“I hate when you look after me, it makes me feel inadequate,” Grantaire grumbles, but he doesn’t put up a fight when Enjolras moves to hold his hand and lead him away from The Corinthe. 

“You should get used to it,” Enjolras says teasingly. “I’m a very pushy person.” 

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Grantaire replies, voice dripping in sarcasm. 

The walk home isn’t too far, but it does take twice as long due to the state that Grantaire is in. They’re mostly silent, fingers laced together to stop Grantaire from straying too far off the pavement, but the air is still heavy with the words he’d said outside of the bar. Enjolras knows there are things still to be said, that there’s much more to the story than the glimpse he was allowed to see. 

“What’s your dad like?” Grantaire asks suddenly, curious and tired sounding. 

Enjolras thinks for a moment, unsure of the most accurate way to describe him while keeping the conversation light. “We’re very different,” he settles for eventually. 

“But do you like him?” 

“Um, I’m not sure. I appreciate what he’s given me and he was never terrible to me, but I don’t think I like him as a person very much.” 

“Right,” Grantaire says. “Mine has always hated me.” 

Enjolras squeezes his hand and glances at the side of Grantaire’s head. “I’m sure he didn’t. He must have loved you.”

Grantaire barks out a laugh and flexes his fingers in Enjolras’ grip. “I was good at all the wrong things from the very beginning, could never win with him. Nothing was ever enough.” 

“But you’re so talented and intelligent,” Enjolras frowns. 

“Well, between you and me,” Grantaire says, tapping the side of his nose, “I’m pretty awful at anything to do with numbers. I had to retake my Maths GCSE.” 

That shocks Enjolras a little, since Grantaire seems like the sort of person who has an extraordinary knowledge of absolutely everything, but it’s not as though it changes his opinion of him. “Those aren’t grounds for hating you though.” 

“For the man who reads the _Financial Times_ every day, they really are.” Grantaire looks studiously ahead, avoiding Enjolras’ stare, and shrugs like it doesn’t mean anything. “And he blames me for my mum dying, so he’s got plenty of reasons.” 

Enjolras stops dead in his tracks with an alarmed expression and he yanks on Grantaire’s hand to stop him too. It’s the last thing he expected to hear, and at first he prays that he misheard, that his brain is playing tricks on him because it’s late and he’s had a few drinks. Grantaire’s face tells a different story though, dark and closed off. 

“How old were you when she died?” Enjolras manages to stutter out incredulously. He already knew she was dead, but Grantaire had been so calm that Enjolras assumed it was an old wound long patched over, something from the distant past. 

Grantaire looks away, his features hard and tense. “I was eighteen, it was just after I took my exams.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Enjolras asks, unable to hide his horror at the thought of Grantaire keeping this to himself.

“It never came up,” Grantaire says stiffly, still looking blankly somewhere over Enjolras’ shoulder. “Or do you think that I should have gone into detail about it on our first date? Because that’s a funny idea of romance you’ve got.” 

Enjolras mentally kicks himself and winces at the blunt tone. If he’s going to get Grantaire to open up, then he’s not going about it the best way. “I didn’t mean it like that, sorry. Of course you didn’t have to tell me.” 

“It’s okay,” Grantaire says quietly, eyes flickering towards the ground. 

“But your dad blaming you…that’s out of order, what the _fuck_.” 

Even the swearing doesn’t do his feelings justice – there aren’t words for how appalled he is. He can’t imagine what it would be like to lose his mother at eighteen years old, but for his own _father_ to place blame on him? There’s nothing worse than the thought of it, of Grantaire already grieving and broken when the only support he has left decides to really stick the knife in and finish him off. 

“He’s right though, it was my fault.” 

“It wasn’t,” Enjolras argues sternly, grabbing Grantaire’s other hand to get his attention. 

“Enjolras, you don’t even know what happened,” Grantaire says seriously, eyes pleading with him to let it go and not fight him. 

Enjolras isn’t going to fight him, but he can’t have Grantaire standing in front of him and believing he killed his mother, not when he looks so broken and torn up. Grantaire already said that he’s never hurt anyone on purpose, and it’s all Enjolras needs to know that his dad is wrong and planting parasitic ideas in his head. 

“Listen to me, R.” Enjolras pulls him in by the waist and lays a hand on his cheek, bringing their foreheads together. “You’re right, I don’t know anything about it. But I do know you, and I know that whatever happened wasn’t your fault, I’m positive of that.” 

Grantaire tries to shake his head but only ends up knocking his nose into Enjolras’, and he presses his face into Enjolras’ throat with a sniff. “I made her pick me up from a party in the middle of the night because I was too drunk, and the weather was bad and she was tired. Her car skidded on the road and crashed on the way there.” 

Enjolras doesn’t comment on the wetness that damps the skin of his neck, instead holding onto Grantaire tighter as though he might just crack into shards of himself, hundreds of pieces all over the floor that can’t be put back together again. Grantaire, at least, finally hugs him back and clings to Enjolras like a lifeline. 

“I don’t tell anyone,” Grantaire whispers. “I don’t tell anyone because I know it was my fault and I can’t stop feeling guilty about it. I can’t believe I just told you.” 

“Thank you for telling me,” Enjolras says in a voice much calmer than he feels. “I have no idea what you must feel but you’re incredible, you’re stronger than anyone and you’re _good_.” 

Grantaire hiccups and coughs wetly, clinging even tighter to Enjolras. “I’m not, look at me. Look at everything I’ve done.” 

Enjolras shushes him and squeezes his own eyes shut. “You’re honest, you’re kind, you’re caring, and you’re a good person. Don’t let anybody tell you different – especially your dad.” 

Taking a deep breath, Grantaire settles back down and loosens his grip on Enjolras’ coat. Enjolras can still feel his chest heaving though, and he won’t let go until Grantaire does first. 

“You’re too good for me,” Grantaire says, almost too quiet to hear, but not quite. “Just take me home, Enjolras.”

Enjolras swallows around the lump in his throat and nods to himself, holding onto Grantaire for just a few more seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic started years ago (unbelievable) and i had the idea for this chapter right at the beginning when i started writing. it's so good to get it out there, even if i'm behind schedule by about 2.5 years lol. how is everyone doing whats up i dropped out of uni last year and just finished an art course i have no idea what i'm doing!!!!!! thank you for staying with this story!!!! it's my baby and i'll finish it i promise. pls comment!!


	22. love is a smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enjolras fights for the people, and one person in particular

After months of meticulous planning, Enjolras had really hoped that they wouldn’t be sitting in the Musain late on a Friday night, just a few hours away from the protest on Saturday afternoon. 

He probably should had expected it though. No matter how much preparation is carried out – even when Combeferre, Joly, and Cosette’s organisation skills are combined – there will always be things that have slipped through net and need sorting out last minute. As it is, they could be fairing much worse. Only a handful of the group are there to tie up the loose ends: Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Éponine, Jehan, and Bahorel cramped around a couple of tables with Enjolras among them.

It’s mostly making sure that everybody has the final plan of the run-through and timings for the day, as well as making a few changes to the procession order of the groups marching with them. Éponine and Jehan are crouched on the floor making enough signs to supply a small army, and someone still needs to decide on which volunteer stewards will be placed where. Throughout all of this, Enjolras keeps changing parts of his speech and has to ask Courfeyrac and Combeferre to go through it each time.

Éponine’s phone starts ringing in a rare moment of quiet and she ends up spilling poster paint all over herself when she jumps to get it, her face thoroughly unimpressed while she wipes her hand on her tights and picks up. 

“Grantaire, are you drunk?” She asks flatly. Her frown only deepens with every minute she’s on the phone. She tries to get a few words in but doesn’t seem to get anywhere and eventually she gets to her feet looking mildly irritated.

“He’s blabbering on about you,” Éponine says to Enjolras, holding the phone to her chest before she tosses it carelessly in his direction. “Just speak to him, I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

Enjolras barely catches the phone, fumbling with it awkwardly until he manages to put it up to his ear. “Hello?”

There’s a pause, but Enjolras hears breathing on the other end. “Enjolras?”

“Yeah, are you alright?”

“I told Éponine not to tell you,” Grantaire says quietly.

Enjolras’ face falls and he presses his lips together. “She hasn’t told me anything yet. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he says unconvincingly. “I’m just out.”

“Right,” Enjolras looks at Éponine for help, feeling extremely left out of the loop. “Where are you?”

“In a wardrobe.”

“What?”

“It’s a party at Montparnasse’s flat and I’m sitting in his wardrobe,” Grantaire sighs. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says quietly, standing up and turning around to take a few steps from the group. “Were you using? Was it that sort of party?” Enjolras asks cautiously.

“I just can’t do it,” Grantaire groans, pained. “I’m not ready yet, I can’t.”

“You can,” Enjolras says firmly. “I’m picking you up.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m leaving right now, no arguments.” Enjolras shoves the phone between his ear and shoulder so that he can hurriedly put his laptop away and try to get his coat on. 

Combeferre looks at him quizzically and watches with concern as he packs everything into his bag. “Enjolras? What’s—”

“I know you’re busy, don’t you dare,” Grantaire warns, but his heart clearly isn’t in it.

“I’ll see you later, Grantaire.” Enjolras ends the call and lets out a tense breath. Everybody is looking at him with varying degrees of confusion, waiting for him to give an explanation. “I’m getting Grantaire from a party at Montparnasse’s. I know we haven’t finished yet but—”

“I’m coming with you,” Bahorel says decisively, pushing his chair back to stand up.

“Me too,” says Jehan, crossing his arms and managing to look just as steely-eyed. 

Enjolras frowns and glances at Éponine in the hopes that she’ll order them to stay. He doesn’t think Grantaire will appreciate an audience for this particular situation. She just shrugs though, fully aware that Bahorel and Jehan won’t easily be swayed.

“Take them,” she mutters, looking away. “Montparnasse knows scary people. They’d eat you alive.”

Enjolras snorts but they both know she’s right. He’s not scared though – Montparnasse in particular doesn’t scare him – and he doesn’t plan on hanging around anyway. He’ll be in and out out there; hopefully Grantaire is more conscious than last time and he won’t have to go in at all. All the same, Bahorel and Jehan put their jackets on and follow Enjolras out of the Musain in tense silence.

In the end Enjolras is glad for the company, otherwise he may have ended up panicking and throwing up at the thought of reliving Grantaire’s birthday. If Éponine had come it would have been eerily similar and he’s not sure he could it. But with Bahorel and Jehan he feels in control, like he’s got strength and courage and determination on his side instead of curiosity and terror. More than that though, he’s got support, even though he didn’t ask for it. Enjolras thinks about that when they’re sitting on the overground and Jehan takes his hand and holds it tightly.

Éponine had texted him the address, but Enjolras finds he remembers the way to Montparnasse’s all too well. And just like he’d seen Éponine’s character change as she walked these streets, so does Bahorel’s. He walked with his shoulders squared and jaw clenched, his expression sober and flinty. Jehan remains mainly unchanged, but there’s a furrow in his brow that hasn’t smoothed out since they left.

Firing off a text to Grantaire that he’s outside, Enjolras punches in the door code to unlock Montparnasse’s building. Nobody says a word as they start climbing the stairs, that same stink of stale piss and cigarette smoke still clinging to the concrete walls. Enjolras feels even more unfit than the last time he was here – his lungs painfully working in overdrive and a stitch in his side when they finally reach the fourth floor. He’ll have to stop sharing cigarettes with Grantaire and buying straights when he’s stressed.

Grantaire.

Enjolras sees him instantly and freezes at the top of the stairs. He’s sitting on the floor crumpled in on himself, back against the wall next to Montparnasse’s front door. His eyes are closed and he could be asleep, but Enjolras isn’t sure so he walks over to him, Bahorel and Jehan following close behind, and crouches down in front of him.

“Hey, it’s me.” Enjolras jostles Grantaire’s shoulder when he doesn’t respond. “It’s Enjolras. We’re going home, okay?”

Grantaire’s eyes struggle to open but he squints up at Enjolras and seems almost happy for a second, before something flashes over his face and he slumps further down the wall. “I told you not to.”

“Too bad, champ,” Bahorel says, looking down at him softly.

It seems to only just hit Grantaire that Bahorel and Jehan are present too, and he whines to himself before covering his eyes with his hands. “For fuck’s sake. Did you send out a whole fucking search party?”

“We’re just the muscle, don’t worry,” Jehan says gently. “We wanted to make sure you’re okay, that’s all.”

Enjolras tries to peel Grantaire’s hands away from his face, but settles for stroking his hair instead when that doesn’t work. “Come on, let’s go.”

“I’m so sorry,” Grantaire says sadly, his voice cracking a bit. “I’m really sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Enjolras asks, managing to get Grantaire’s hands out of the way so that he can cup his cheeks.

“I fucked it up. I bet you’re really disappointed.”

Enjolras makes sure they’re looking straight into each other’s eyes. “Don’t do that. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

“I wanted to do more, to keep going,” Grantaire says, letting Enjolras attempt to hug him and pull him to his feet. “I could have kept going. It felt so nice.”

“But you didn’t,” Enjolras says easily, shaking his head at Bahorel and Jehan when they look as though they’re about to take Grantaire and carry him between them. “You called me and you left.”

“Part of me still wants to go back in there.”

Grantaire is alright to walk on his own, he’s just a little wobbly and out of step, so Enjolras puts an arm around his waist and guides him towards the stairs. “I know, and that’s why we’re going home. It’s fine.”

It’s probably not fine. Grantaire’s breathing is slow and there’s a bit of dried blood on the inside of his elbow. They’ve got a protest tomorrow that he probably won’t be attending because he’ll either be in withdrawal or out scoring again. Bahorel gives Enjolras’ shoulder a heavy pat as if he’s thinking all of this too.

\--

The rally begins in Parliament Square and is a better turnout than even Enjolras could have expected. 

They get big groups of supporters from university political societies, all coming with colourful placards and signs despite the ominous grey clouds looming overhead. Bahorel seems to welcome a whole truckload of people he knows, and a bunch of Feuilly’s friends from the markets show up too. It seems that they all know quite a lot of people combined, and all the effort they had put into promoting the event across the internet and flyposting every inch of London has truly paid off.

Of course all of the regulars from the Musain are there – most of the other ABC members were the ones to volunteer as stewards to keep an eye on things. They’re the same ones who have been out all morning handing out posters around Central London to catch any last minute attendees, and Enjolras doesn’t know how they would have pulled any of this off without them. Somehow everyone just slips into business mode and everything they’ve spent the last few months planning comes together and falls into place, and Enjolras can’t help but feel extraordinarily proud.

They all worked hard to get here – testing the limits of their schedules and giving up hours upon hours of their free time and knowingly spending more money than they would ever get back in donations. There had been days when all Enjolras’ body wanted was a weekend off to relax and do nothing but sleep and watch telly mindlessly, but he never regretted swapping that for drumming up support in communities that need this protest most, the ones that are crumbling under austerity measures and being bulldozed or swept away. 

Those are the communities that march with them to Trafalgar Square – couples and pensioners and young workers – all chanting and keeping the energy high nonstop, attracting attention from the Westminster tourists and people strolling through the city. Enjolras feels a fire in his belly as he leads the rally with a megaphone, Combeferre and Courfeyrac flanking him just behind while carrying the largest banner of all – red with bright white writing in block letters. 

They didn’t have the funds to splash out on podiums or anything like that, so they gather around Nelson’s Column and the three of them mount the steps just to be a few feet higher and visible. After Enjolras makes a speech he steps down to watch others do the same, but he finds himself distracted, his mind wandering every few minutes without his consent. It’s stupid – he knows that – but once he starts it’s as though a floodgate has been opened and all he can think about is Grantaire. Or more accurately, the absence of Grantaire.

Enjolras tries to ignore the tug in his gut and makes sure he stays mentally present, giving his full attention to the rally and losing himself in it until the end. After a while he forgets all about missing Grantaire and is too busy thanking everyone he can for attending once it hits four o’clock and they call it a day. He hugs people and sticks around to hand out what flyers they have left, talks about the ABC group to people who tentatively come up and ask for more details about the protest and cause, and he lets Courfeyrac kiss him on the mouth and Combeferre ruffle his hair with a wild grin.

Then he gets a text, one that he had hoped for earlier but even now hadn’t expected to come through. One from Grantaire saying he’s on his way.

By the time Grantaire comes into view nearly everyone has packed up and gone home, leaving just Enjolras and a few tourists who have deemed it safe to walk around the square and pose with the lion statues. Enjolras nearly misses him, the quickly darkening sky forcing him to squint when he sees a boy in a parka. 

Enjolras sits on the edge of one of the fountains and waits for Grantaire to amble over towards him, his hair haphazardly tucked under a black beanie. Rather than get up, Enjolras decides to admire the view from where he’s sitting. Grantaire doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest, instead he’s rocking back and forth on his heels looking smug.

“Congratulations, you made the news.”

“Really?” Enjolras asks eagerly, eyebrows shooting up.

“Well not the headlines,” Grantaire smirks, punching Enjolras’ shoulder lightly when his face falls. “Smashed social media though. The group twitter was going mad and we got loads of new followers.”

Enjolras’ mouth twitches at the corners. “You were checking?”

“Yeah, obviously.” Grantaire looks at Enjolras like he’s an idiot for even asking. Then he steps into the space between Enjolras’ knees and scuffs his shoes on the ground. “Sorry about, you know, not being here.”

Enjolras shrugs, even before yesterday he hadn’t expected him to show up at the protest. “It’s alright, I understand.”

“It’s not alright though,” Grantaire huffs. “This was a big deal and it’s important to you and I should have been here. I really wanted to be here.”

“Honestly, R, it’s okay. You said it yourself – it went great and I’m really happy about it.” Enjolras smiles up at Grantaire but he doesn’t return it, instead looking at his feet darkly. 

“Well I’m trying to stop letting you down and I’m not doing a very good job of it. And I’m sorry about last night too. I know you were doing stuff for today and you didn’t have to come and sort me out.”

Enjolras stands up and places a hand on Grantaire’s hip, looking straight into his eyes. “Fine. You’re right. I didn’t have to, I wanted to. I love you and I want to know you’re safe.”

“Shut up,” Grantaire mumbles quickly, a frown creasing his forehead. 

“What—”

Grantaire cuts his sentence off with a firm hand around his neck and a hard kiss. The distraction works for a while; Enjolras gets caught in teeth scraping at his lip and Grantaire’s tongue in his mouth, but it’s desperate to the point of frantic and it doesn’t feel quite right.

Enjolras pulls away, resting his forehead against Grantaire’s as he runs his fingers down his jawline. Grantaire lets out a shaky breath, careful to look at the ground and not at Enjolras.

Enjolras says his name just once, trying for gentle but commanding.

“I’m not one your other fans, you don’t have to butter me up,” Grantaire tries to say flippantly, his hands slipping to weakly fist in Enjolras’ jacket. “I’m not going anywhere – you don’t have to say that stuff. You don’t owe it to me.”

“I’m not buttering you up,” Enjolras says a little indignantly. His hand moves to bury itself in Grantaire’s hair, and he tugs until Grantaire is looking up at him. 

Grantaire stares at him with strangely pleading eyes, lost and helpless and conveying something else that Enjolras can’t understand. He wants to talk about this, get past whatever Grantaire thinks is going on, but there are lips on his again and Grantaire pulls him down with warm hands on both of his cheeks as he kisses Enjolras’ words away. 

“Don’t ruin this, please,” Grantaire says against his mouth, barely moving away. “You’re not allowed to do this, remember? Don’t lie to me.” His nose brushes Enjolras’ as he speaks, and he tucks a fallen curl behind Enjolras’ ear with one finger. “Don’t make it harder.”

He kisses Enjolras again, only this time it’s with lingering lips and trembling hands and Enjolras knows when he’s being silenced. Grantaire’s temper feels so precarious, his composure ready to rupture at any given moment. Enjolras has a sickening feeling about Grantaire’s worries, and it’s only because of that volatility that he doesn’t pull away right now and force Grantaire to listen to an explanation.

Grantaire thinks Enjolras is lying to him, and that hurts more than he thought it would.

“I am in love with you though.”

“Enjolras, how can you know if you’re in love with me? You’ve never even been with anyone before.”

“And you’ve never had a boyfriend – have you even had a relationship?”

Grantaire looks away sheepishly and scratches at his stubble. “Yes, when I was younger.”

“Younger than me,” Enjolras guesses, and he knows he’s not wrong. “I know what I want and how I feel, and I’m not going to make the mistake of hiding it from you again. You need to know too.”

“I can’t talk about this—can we just—”

“Why?” Enjolras demands, starting to feel the hurt seep into his chest. 

Grantaire closes his eyes and doesn’t say anything, until swallows and sets his jaw, staring at Enjolras like it’s a hardship. “People like me don’t get to be in love. It doesn’t happen.”

“What are you talking about?” Taking a chance, Enjolras reaches for Grantaire and winds his arms around him, pulling him into his chest. He drops his hand and tangles his fingers with Grantaire’s and is instantly relieved when he responds easily.

Grantaire is eerily quiet, unnerving Enjolras in his silence. “I’m going to go,” he says eventually, looking off to the side. “I’m glad the protest went well.”

Grantaire brushes a kiss to the corner of Enjolras’ mouth before extricating himself smoothly from his arms. Looking back just once, he walks in the direction of Charing Cross and Enjolras watches his figure become smaller and smaller, until he’s out of sight. 

\--

A couple of days after the protest Enjolras insists on staying with Grantaire while he starts detoxing again. He can’t stomach the thought of Grantaire disappearing again while he goes cold turkey, and he doesn’t stop making Grantaire aware of this until he gives in and agrees that Enjolras can help out.

He thinks Grantaire’s overflowing dirty laundry is as good a place to start as any. 

One afternoon, once Grantaire has been in the bathroom dry-heaving over the toilet for more than fifteen minutes, he quietly leaves and slips into Grantaire’s bedroom. There are clothes all over the floor and there’s no way to tell what state they’re in without giving everything a sniff, so Enjolras does just that and creates a wobbling mountain inside of the laundry basket.

Grantaire hates when Enjolras watches him throw up, so he might as well make himself useful and do something that will make Grantaire’s life a little bit easier while he’s detoxing. Grantaire will no doubt make a big fuss over it, but Enjolras can’t help feeling like he’s copping out of the hard parts by doing chores for him. Even though Grantaire has eased up marginally on how involved Enjolras gets to be with the whole process, a large part of him is clearly trying to put on a brave face for Enjolras’ benefit.

These things take time, Enjolras tells himself while stuffing clothes in the washing machine. He can’t expect Grantaire not to hold back when he’s dealing with such uncomfortable issues, especially since Enjolras has zero first-hand experience with addiction or addicts. All he can do is be there for Grantaire, and that’s exactly what he plans on doing, whether it’s bringing him peppermint tea at three in the morning or making sure he isn’t alone. Today it’s sorting through socks and pants so that Grantaire doesn’t have to.

He strips the bed next and washes the sheets in another load, leaving the bedroom window wide open to let some fresh air rinse out the stuffy, slightly stagnant smell that has started clinging to the room. It’s probably too cold for it, especially considering Grantaire’s heating is temperamental at best, but it’s much better than the potent odour of two boys sleeping, eating, and having sex in the same unventilated box day after day.

Enjolras goes back down to the kitchen with all intentions of making Grantaire a cup of camomile tea, but he finds himself distracted by something he hasn’t thought about in years. He stares at the box of teabags blankly, remembering when he was five years old and had caught chicken pox from Combeferre. He wouldn’t stop scratching and his mother had been watching him like a hawk to make sure he didn’t pick at every spot on his body.

After Enjolras had cried for close to an hour, shrieks echoing around the quiet house and bouncing off the walls, his mum had picked him up and taken him to her bathroom – a place strictly off-limits for him until that point – and set him down on the closed toilet lid. Enjolras remembers snuffling, still hyperventilating, as he looked in awe at all the shiny surfaces and the large claw-foot bath in the centre of the room. It had seemed magical at the time – all the bottles of expensive perfume and burnt down candles decorating the counters. 

She ran him a hot bath with a few drops of camomile oil, and it had been the most wonderful feeling in the world to sit in a grown-up bath and splash around without feeling like his skin was going to fall off. He fell asleep straight afterwards, his mum having to carry him to bed in a bundle of fluffy white towels. And after that it became a routine – whenever Enjolras was unwell there would always been a camomile bath waiting for him, until he reached his mid-teens and decided he was too old for things like that.

His heart aches a little bit, and he wonders when someone last ran Grantaire a bath to make him feel better. He wonders whether Grantaire’s mum did the same thing when he was young. Suddenly all he can feel is grateful – overwhelmingly so. 

Enjolras upends the cupboards to find the biggest bowl in the house, emptying the entire box of tea into it while he puts the kettle on. He ends up waiting over ten minutes for the whole thing to brew properly, and when he goes back upstairs Grantaire is on the bathroom floor, his face squashed against the cold tile as he lies curled up in the foetal position with his eyes closed. 

“I hope the floor is clean,” Enjolras says, closing the door behind him.

Grantaire groans. “I’d rather not know.”

“True,” Enjolras nods seriously, stepping over him to reach the bath. “Ignorance is bliss.”

“Don’t make me get up. It’s nice down here.”

“I won’t just yet.” Enjolras sets the bowl down so he can stick the plug in and get the taps running.

Grantaire doesn’t ask him to elaborate, instead remaining silent and unmoving on the floor while the boiler groans ominously and water splashes loudly into the bath. Once it’s nearly full Enjolras picks all of the teabags out of the bowl and drops them in the bin, before pouring what’s left into the bath. He gives it a swirl to make sure it all it infuses and checks that the temperature is okay, and then he looks to Grantaire.

“This is for you, by the way,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bath as he shakes water from his forearm.

“I don’t need a bath,” Grantaire mumbles to the floor, not moving an inch. “I need a hit.”

“Well we’re fresh out of heroin and you’re starting to smell.”

“I don’t care.”

Enjolras sighs and crosses his arms. “Look – either you’re going to get in of your own free will or I’m going to dump you in fully clothed. Both options suit me fine so it’s up to you.”

“Dick,” Grantaire mutters under his breath, but at least he shuffles into a kneeling position and eventually hauls himself up from the ground. It takes a while for him to get undressed, fingers trembling and muscles aching too much for it, but Enjolras resists the urge to help him along and speed things up.

“I’m wash your hair if you want,” Enjolras offers offhandedly, not knowing what kind of answer to expect.

Grantaire hugs himself against the chill of the room and steps into the bath, splashing Enjolras lightly when he submerges completely and holds his head underwater, bubbles rising up from his nose. Ten seconds later he resurfaces with a splutter and slicks his hair back. 

“I’m not an invalid,” he coughs, before looking to Enjolras with a suspicious expression. “Why does it taste of camomile in here?”

“Because I put a lot of camomile tea in it,” Enjolras says. “I thought it might help with the cramps and aches, and you know, it’s meant to calm you down isn’t it?”

Grantaire hardly looks convinced but he doesn’t comment on it further. He does ask Enjolras to get him a towel and his smoking pouch so that he can roll a cigarette though. Enjolras sits cross legged by the bath while Grantaire dries his hands off and makes a quick rollup, neither of them speaking until the room has started to fill up with wispy smoke. 

“Did you learn that from Jehan?” Grantaire asks, tapping ash into the empty soap dish.

It takes Enjolras a few seconds to realise what he’s talking about. “No, my mum. She always used camomile oil but I assumed you didn’t have any lying around.”

Grantaire turns to face him and holds out his cigarette for Enjolras to finish. “You don’t talk about your mum much. What’s she like?”

Enjolras inhales more than he should and nearly chokes on it, resulting in some kind of surprised snort as he tries to make his body smaller. “She’s nice. Courfeyrac and Combeferre love her.”

“And what about you?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and throws the cigarette butt into the toilet. “I love her too, obviously, but it’s difficult sometimes. Like when my dad is being a twat but she still takes his side because she thinks she has to. She’s not very good at standing up for me.”

“Recently, you mean?” Grantaire says. “Since you left university?”

“I guess,” Enjolras shrugs, looking away. “Before that too. But she’s not a bad mum, it’s just hard for me to understand how she can be married to someone like my dad.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Grantaire says solemnly, staring at the wall. “Do you think she’d say the same thing about us?”

“You’re a good person,” Enjolras retorts firmly. “Do you want me to wash your hair or not?”

“That sounds like a thinly veiled threat,” Grantaire grumbles, but he reaches for shampoo and conditioner anyway. 

Enjolras rolls his jogging bottoms up to his knees and sits on the end of the bath behind Grantaire, his legs on either side of him. The moment feels scarily intimate – Enjolras silently massaging shampoo into Grantaire’s hair while the pipes continue to creak. It should be something nice and thoughtful if not fairly innocuous, but there’s an obvious and unspoken weight behind every movement of Enjolras’ fingers across Grantaire’s scalp as he tries to unpick knotted curls.

After a while Enjolras notices how the scars that litter Grantaire’s arms and chest become a more noticeable shade of red in the hot water. Most of the time he forgets they’re there, just slithers of shiny skin that have become as normal as the tattoos that break them up. Enjolras resists the urge to drag his fingers along a particularly nasty scar on Grantaire’s wrist, stroking his hair instead where his head resting in Enjolras’ lap. His eyes are closed and he looks more peaceful than Enjolras has seen him in days. He doesn’t want to upset that.

Leaning down to kiss Grantaire on the nose, Enjolras disentangles himself and steps out of the bath in order to save his pruning feet. Grantaire asks about his mum again, with such genuine curiosity that Enjolras ends up telling him every anecdote he can think of until the water goes cold, Grantaire eventually dosing off in the middle of a very poorly formed sentence. 

“I’m not asleep,” Grantaire mumbles when Enjolras wakes him up. “Resting my eyelids.”

“Sure,” Enjolras says, passing a towel from the radiator to him. “Although maybe you’d like to rest your eyelids in an actual bed rather than tepid water.”

After drying off, Grantaire nabs Bahorel’s fluffy dressing gown from the back of the door and wraps himself up in it while Enjolras gives the bath a rinse and picks up Grantaire’s discarded clothes. Grantaire is clearly still half asleep when he goes upstairs to his bedroom, getting as far as the opposite wall to pull the window shut before he freezes and looks around. 

“You did something,” he says suspiciously, still surveying the room with a puzzled frown.

“What?”

“You—” Grantaire starts, but he cuts himself off with a sigh and his shoulders slump as realisation crosses his face. “You did my laundry. You turned my pit of doom into a habitable living space.”

“Nearly habitable,” Enjolras adds, unable to stop himself. “You need to stop hoarding plates and mugs in here, I’m pretty sure there a several lifeforms in that corner alone.”

Grantaire ignores him and face-plants onto the clean sheets instead, his limbs spread out like a starfish as the mattress bounces. After a minute of inhaling the smell of fabric softener he turns his head to the side and gets Enjolras’ attention with a twisted flap of his hand. 

“I owe you my life,” he says seriously. “You’re my favourite person.”

Enjolras smiles goofily, allowing himself the pleasure since Grantaire can’t actually see him. His stomach might be floating inside of his body or maybe it’s just his soul ascending. It’s definitely something like that. He loves Grantaire more than he even knows how to make sense of.

“And you’re mine, in case you didn’t know,” Enjolras says in lieu of another ill-advised confession of love. “Top of the list.”

“Hmm, that’s hard to believe. I’ll take third place though, it’s up there.”

Enjolras scoffs and sits down on bed next to Grantaire after giving him a smack on the bum. His eyes are already closed but he there’s a faint smile on his lips, one that Enjolras never thought he’d be able to get out of him today. 

He’s going to be okay. Enjolras is going to make sure he’ll be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i changed my tumblr url so find me at proseccohunny.tumblr.com now  
> comments are greatly appreciated! i read and treasure them all even if i don't reply to them xoxoxo


	23. three young boys

Weeks pass by in a blur for Enjolras. It feels like he’s constantly busy and his only moments of peace are when he’s falling asleep or waking up next to Grantaire. He works, he works some more, and he tries to make himself available as a constant crutch for Grantaire to lean on.

Grantaire, of course, would rather struggle quietly and alone. 

They try to celebrate the little things though. When Grantaire has been clean for a fortnight, Jehan and Cosette bake him an elaborate cake and throw him a surprise party in Jehan’s cramped flat. They eat jelly and ice cream and play board games all night, and Grantaire doesn’t stop smiling the entire time. 

A week after that, Enjolras treats Grantaire to the best of his cooking abilities, and they eat mushrooms and beans on toast in the sofa with their limbs tangled up while a crackly Chet Baker record plays on the turntable in the living room. 

“Well done,” Grantaire says with a mouth full of beans. “This is truly a gourmet meal.” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and kicks whatever part of Grantaire is closest to his foot. “Here we go again. I don’t know why I bothered.” 

“I mean it!” Grantaire grins, wiping crumbs from his stubble. “I’m awarding you a Michelin star for your excellence.”

“I’ve never felt more honoured in my life.” 

Grantaire scowls at the deadpan reply and takes a furious sip of tea. “I’m rescinding your star. You’re a terrible cook and I don’t know why you won’t just let me teach you.” 

Enjolras kisses Grantaire’s knee and shrugs innocently. “Where’s the fun in that?” 

“I’m a _great_ cook.” 

Enjolras wrinkles his nose. “You’re okay.” 

They bicker sarcastically until they finish eating, at which point they’ve got bits of toast lodged in their hair and falling into the cracks of the sofa. Enjolras puts a final stop to the battle when tea gets spilt all down his front – luckily only lukewarm now. 

“I hate you,” he gripes, pinching the soaked fabric of his t-shirt away from his skin. “You always take it too far.” 

Grantaire’s eyes glimmer as he quickly moves to kneel between Enjolras’ legs, his smile mischievous. “Or maybe this was my plan all along – in which case, I take it just far enough.” 

He peels Enjolras top off and barely waits for his head to pop out of the neck before landing a kiss on him. The heating in Grantaire’s house is perpetually broken so the chill has Enjolras shivering, goose bumps raising all over his skin despite the warmth of Grantaire pressing him into the sofa while they kiss slowly, as if the rest of the world will wait patiently until they feel like stopping. 

Or until Bahorel walks in stark naked and starts heckling them on his way to the kitchen. 

“Get a room!” He bellows far too loudly for the small distance between them. 

“Your dick was literally just swinging in front of my face,” Enjolras gripes, but Grantaire seems determined to ignore them both, shifting to straddle Enjolras’ hips instead. 

Grantaire grabs Enjolras’ face with both hands and looks down at him intently, not quite grinding in Enjolras’ lap but certainly putting the idea in his head. “He’s just jealous that his sex life is all dried up. Now, pay attention to me.” 

Getting clean has had a profoundly draining effect on Grantaire, but his sex drive has ramped up more than ever; insatiable doesn’t even begin to cover it. The past few weeks have more than made up for all of Enjolras’ years of chastity before Grantaire, and suddenly they’re back to hooking up in toilets and broom cupboards like they used to do when they first started messing about with each other. 

There’s a solid hour before either of them need to leave for work, and there are much worse ways for them to pass time than hurrying upstairs for a quickie.

 

\--

 

Bahorel texts Enjolras later that afternoon with an invite to a Shoreditch coffeehouse around the corner from the office that Bahorel occasionally visits for work. Enjolras makes his way there after his shift ends. He doesn’t stand a chance of getting a seat on the tube in the evening rush hour, and he winces at the twinge of pain in his back that’s been throbbing harder with every minute he’s been standing up today.

Even from the outside the coffee shop is blaringly pretentious and Enjolras almost thinks that Bahorel must be playing an elaborate joke on him, but Enjolras sees him through the window, sipping from a comically tiny espresso cup. Inside is much worse, Enjolras decides, finding that there are no chairs and everybody is sitting on sacks of coffee beans laid across metal benches. 

He hasn’t the faintest idea how Bahorel ended up in here.

Enjolras heads to the counter to order a cappuccino, and Feuilly exits a bathroom while he’s waiting. Feuilly catches sight of him and walks over, fitting right in to his surroundings with long hair spilling out of a beanie, straight jeans that stop above his ankles, and tatty high-tops trainers. 

“You alright?” He asks, giving Enjolras a welcoming pat between the shoulder blades.

“Work is shit but yeah, I’m good. You?” 

Feuilly shrugs and orders a glass of water when the barista hands over Enjolras’ cappuccino. “Work is work, init? Just wish I could stop feeling so fucking tired all the tired.” 

They join Bahorel at the table next to the window and Enjolras withholds a groan when he sits down on the sack of coffee beans and tries to find a comfortable spot. Bahorel’s face lights up when he sees Enjolras, and he seems to be surrounded by a sea of empty muffin casings. 

“I know the vibe is weird, but the food is ridiculous. I keep coming in here every day and blowing all my money on these little cakes,” Bahorel sighs. He looks like a very friendly giant with a small brownie square in his hand, especially next to the miniature coffee cup and saucer. “Anyway, I’ve been wanting to have a discussion.” 

Enjolras’ stomach plummets at record speed. With just the three of them here this must be a conversation about Grantaire. Those conversations aren’t usually cheerful ones. 

“Grantaire has been a lot better recently,” Bahorel continues, and Enjolras lets out a quiet breath of relief. “And I know this is awful to even think about but…” 

“What?” 

Feuilly leans forward with his elbows on the table and looks at Enjolras gently. “It won’t stay like that; he’s probably going to take a turn soon.”

Enjolras knows that, even if it makes him apprehensive when the words are finally out in the open. They’ve probably all been thinking the same thing for days.

“Well what more can we do than what we’re already doing?” 

Bahorel looks down and pushes the crumbs on the table around with his finger. “It’s not really about that, Enjolras. It’s what he’s going to do.” 

“You think he’ll put himself in danger? Do something stupid?” 

Feuilly makes a face that answers that question, but it becomes clear that’s not what Bahorel means. 

“He’s going to do everything to push you away,” Feuilly says bluntly. “And sometimes he won’t be nice – he’ll be fucking horrible and he’ll say things that he knows will hurt you. He’ll probably say he hates you, and that he wishes he’d never met you.” 

Enjolras nods, his throat too dry to say anything. 

“He doesn’t mean it,” Bahorel adds quickly. “He’s done all this to both of us when he’s tried to clean up before.” 

All Enjolras can do is keep nodding because he knows a part of Grantaire will mean it, no matter how small or unfounded. He knows that when it happens it won’t have anything to do with Enjolras, but he still knows it’s going make him feel terrible. 

“He needs to see a doctor or something, but he won’t,” Feuilly says. “Once he reaches a month he’s always run out of steam and fallen into this massive slump of depression, until he starts using again. Being clean forces him to think about how fucked up he is and he can’t handle it.” 

“So, what is this?” Enjolras asks flatly. “A warning?”

Bahorel looks at him sombrely. “He’s looking for a reason to go back. It’s all smooth sailing now but at some point, he’s going to accuse you of trying to control him or ruin his life. We’re just trying to give you a heads up.” 

Grantaire is lucky to have friends like this. Enjolras is lucky too. It’s a shame that it doesn’t feel like enough to hold all the pieces together. No amount of conspiring in coffee shops can win out over Grantaire’s will. 

“He’s drinking a lot, even for him.” Feuilly pulls his hat off and runs his hands through his hair. “Is poisoning your liver any better than shooting up?” 

Enjolras has no idea. 

He doesn’t want to find out.

 

\--

 

They get five more days of hope and hearts swelling with pride. Five days of Grantaire looking worse for wear, still too thin and pale to pass for healthy, but clean of opiates all the same. 

After five days, Grantaire relapses again. 

He hides it from Enjolras at first, going off the radar and seldom seeing anyone for more than meaningless chats over coffee and cigarettes every now and then. He skips meetings and stays out all night and barely comes home, but everyone wants to believe that nothing is wrong and a growing tension roots itself in the group.

Grantaire misses things. They have dinner parties, see bands play in dingy pubs, attend political debates, go to poetry readings, and each time Grantaire pulls out excuses at the last minute and promises he’ll be there next time. Enjolras holds his tongue and hides the resentment that starts to creep in, but most days he doesn’t know if that’s any better than confronting Grantaire head-on about the lies and sneakiness. 

He stops having to worry about it when Grantaire lends him the jacket he’s wearing, Enjolras shivering on the roof in just jeans and a jumper, and his cold fingers find a couple bags of brown powder in the pockets. It’s not the right thing to take them out and throw them at Grantaire in frustration, but that’s what happens. 

Enjolras refuses watch him throw up in bed again, unable to move because of the stomach cramps and muscle spasms. He loves Grantaire, but he can’t keep watching him go through hell and back while Grantaire cries and promises that this is the last time, lying through his teeth. 

When Grantaire starts coming back to the Musain he looks like shit and acts like it too. He barely participates, keeping utterly quiet apart from cutting remarks and morbid jokes that sour the atmosphere. It’s clear he doesn’t deliberately do it to bring everyone down but the more he drinks the worse it gets, and he drinks a lot. 

Even Joly and Bossuet’s company can’t pull Grantaire out of the miserable recesses of his mind after he’s necked two bottles of wine. He carries a hipflask everywhere, and Enjolras catches him pouring a liberal amount of whisky into his coffee on several mornings. The sex stops abruptly and nights are spent lying in bed clinging to each other like drifting lifelines. Sometimes they don’t even speak – the appropriate words too difficult to conjure up and say out loud. 

They don’t talk about the yellowing bruises or track marks that have scabbed over. Enjolras stops asking when Grantaire last ate a full meal or spent a day sober. It’s easier to go on pretending things are better than they are. 

When Enjolras finds raw slashes on Grantaire’s arms and chest, alongside fresh blisters of cigarette burns, he doesn’t know what to do other than pull away. He wants to help but it feels impossible, as if he’s the catalyst that keeps sending Grantaire spinning further into despair. He doesn’t disappear completely, but he rarely sees Grantaire away from their friends and it always feels like they’re standing awkwardly on thin ice when he does. 

Though somehow, among all the tension and emotional turmoil that has wrought havoc around them, one thing starts to look up for Enjolras. He gets offered the kind of opportunity that he was quietly starting to believe would never come along. 

It begins as an afternoon as innocuous as any other. Enjolras stands on a crammed bus in rush hour, scrolling through his emails and ignoring the strangers that jostle roughly into him whenever they take a sharp turn.

He’s been applying to stacks of internships recently, though not particularly expecting anything to come his way. Being a university dropout with no degree and no significant connections doesn’t exactly give him a sparkling CV that employers are desperate to snap up. He’ll admit that he has some stellar work experience from the years when he still took favours of nepotism from his dad, but none of them lasted longer than a month. He had eventually come to terms with the fact that students and graduates would always be a step ahead of him for placements. 

But despite all of this, he gets a promising response from the Radical Assembly network. The East London branch of the group have responded to his email and even expressed an interest in working with him on a community campaign after seeing what he’s been doing with the ABC, particularly the recent demonstration. They mention needing some extra hands on the practical side of things – turning community concerns that have been raised into effective forms of direct action, keeping the group as accessible as possible to anyone in the area. 

The last paragraph is the killer; the Assembly is hosting a week of local workshops to drum up more grassroots support and active participants, and they want Enjolras to help coordinate it all with them. They make it clear that Enjolras won’t be an intern – that the Assembly is built around concentrated democracy and therefore has no central committee or leaders. Whilst he questions how effective a political group with no form of leadership can be, there’s no question over whether he’ll take them up on the offer. 

The excitement of it all has him feeling stupidly giddy as he jumps off the bus and walks home with a brand-new lightness in his step. Even the sun makes an appearance and peeks out of the clouds for a few minutes, warming his face as he starts grinning to himself at the prospect of telling everyone.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac will be delighted, of course, and will no doubt want to hear every detail and start discussing ideas straight away. The news might even cheer Grantaire up a little – lord knows that he and Enjolras could stand to have something positive to look forward to instead of snapping at each other. In fact, Enjolras feels so jolly that he walks straight past his house and makes a beeline for Grantaire’s door, digging out the spare key he keeps attached to his own set. 

With his heart still racing, Enjolras can’t wait to tell Grantaire that he finally has good news, but when he looks up his face falls. An artfully dishevelled Montparnasse slinks down the stairs, dressed head to toe in sleek black clothing. 

“What are you doing here?” Enjolras says tightly, frozen in place. 

Montparnasse pauses mid-step and stares right back at Enjolras, his expression blank. “Christ, give it a rest.” 

The blood rushes loudly around Enjolras’ ears and he repeats himself. “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

“I’m not here for a fight,” Montparnasse says wearily, slicking one side of his hair back. “Do yourself a favour and turn around.” 

Enjolras’ jaw twitches as Montparnasse descends the last few steps and slips his wallet into the pocket of his jacket. Enjolras refuses to move and it becomes something of a standoff – two boys with identical glares and another boy waiting upstairs. Just seeing Montparnasse in this house has Enjolras feeling like something awful is clawing its way out of his chest. 

“I asked you a question,” Enjolras grits out. “Answer it.” 

“Talk to me like that again and you’re in trouble, mate.”

Enjolras laughs. He’s still not scared of Montparnasse and what he might do to him. He is scared of what he can do to Grantaire though. “Get out _now_.” 

Montparnasse scoffs as he shoves roughly past Enjolras towards the door, before turning around with a devilish quirk to his lips. “I don’t know why you’re bothering when you know you’re not going to like what you find.” 

It’s difficult not to react to that, but Enjolras manages to keep his mouth shut while his nostrils flare until the door slams behind Montparnasse. The silence that follows is unnerving, sickening even, as Enjolras prepares for a scene he would rather not confront at all.

It’s easier to just shut his emotions off and let his entire psyche go blank. It gets him up the stairs and in front of Grantaire’s bedroom door. He doesn’t feel like he’s inside his own head anymore, as if he’s separate from his body and it’s working like a piece of automatic machinery. It lasts until he pushes the door open and steps inside, immediately seeing Grantaire sprawled out on the floor with his back propped up against the side of the bed. 

Enjolras breathes in deeply and manages to pull air into his lungs despite a lump the size of a billiard ball jammed in his throat. He can’t stop his heart from pounding but he grits his teeth against it anyway, wishing he could will himself back into stone again.

“Grantaire…” He sounds broken to his own ears and he can’t finish whatever he was going to say because this shouldn’t be about him. 

It doesn’t really matter. Grantaire doesn’t hear him at all, and even if he does he’s unresponsive. Enjolras looks away to compose himself, his eyes stinging as he stares aggressively at a patch of mould on the wall. 

He counts to ten, and then looks at the mess surrounding Grantaire.

It might be frustration that has Enjolras shaking wildly as he picks up needles, sachets of citric acid powder, a tourniquet, and a few bundles of heroin. It might be anger too, he can’t really tell the difference when he’s shoving everything into a plastic bag and rushing out the door and downstairs. He walks stiffly out of the house and goes about twenty doors down the street, dumping all of Grantaire’s kit into some poor sod’s rubbish bin. 

Enjolras goes straight back to the house, eyes glazing over Grantaire’s figure in the same position. He starts to pull drawers open and rifles through them frantically, digging through Grantaire’s belongings on an incensed rampage. 

There’s more of it. There’s always more. 

Enjolras hides the rest of the gear in his messenger bag – out of sight and to be properly disposed of later. But for now, he’s not leaving this room until he and Grantaire reach some level of understanding, anything that will make sense of Grantaire’s latest relapse and why they’re becoming a more regular occurrence with less time between them. 

Enjolras waits. It’s an excruciating ordeal, but he manages it. He’s sitting cross legged on the floor when Grantaire stirs, grunting quietly to himself as his eyelids flutter and limbs start to fidget. When he comes to his senses enough to process the steely green eyes staring at him, he doesn’t look altogether surprised. 

“Don’t suppose I let you in,” Grantaire says groggily, avoiding Enjolras’ gaze completely now.

“What’s going on, Grantaire?” 

Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut and lets his head drop back against the mattress, his muscles loose and relaxed despite the exhale of an irritated sigh. “Nothing.” 

“It’s not nothing,” Enjolras says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “You started out so well and now…” 

“If it was that easy there wouldn’t be any addicts left,” he replies flatly, his mood dropping palpably. 

“R, please stop doing this,” Enjolras pleads, his throat catching. “I hate seeing you like this, I can’t do it. I can’t watch you do this again.” 

Grantaire groans like it physically hurts him to listen. “I can’t do this. I’ll end up dead before I get clean for good – I can’t do it.” 

Enjolras crawls across the floor and pulls Grantaire into his arms, hugging him tightly.

He swallows drily, his eyes starting to burn. “You don’t need it, you don’t need any of this, I know you can be so much more. You’re so smart and you’re more talented than you’ll ever admit and you have so, so much to give. This stuff isn’t helping you, it’s ruining you.”

Hot tears trickle down Enjolras’ face and he bites his lip hard to stop the crying as soon as it starts, but Grantaire is laughing. He’s not laughing at Enjolras – that much is clear – but it’s the kind of laugh that sends an unpleasant chill through a room. Grantaire’s eyes slide shut and his head lolls forwards before Enjolras can take hold of his face to steady him. 

“I ruined myself.” 

“This is going to kill you and it doesn’t have to.” 

“God, I hope it does,” Grantaire says with a twisted smile.

Enjolras’ chest tightens even further, his heart beating wildly in his throat while Grantaire breathes against his shoulder and sags into him. 

“I thought you wanted to stop,” Enjolras says quietly, and he’s grasping for the words that will make Grantaire understand and remember why he wanted to quit in the first place. “You said you wanted to.” 

All the things Enjolras wants to say the most are selfish and he hates himself for it, but he can’t stop thinking, _please don’t let this destroy you, please don’t put me in this position, please don’t let me down again, please don’t wipe out the person I’m in love with._  

“People can’t change, not really.”

“They can,” Enjolras says firmly. “You can.” 

Grantaire laughs something harsh and vicious, the sound setting Enjolras’ teeth on edge and raising the hairs on the back of his neck. 

“You’re better than the drugs,” Enjolras presses, stubborn as ever and reluctant to give up while Grantaire is still cognisant and burrowing into him. 

“I’m not. You don’t even—you don’t know me without them,” Grantaire mumbles, his breath hot and damp on Enjolras’ skin. “You didn’t know me before. You can’t separate me from the drugs – this is just who I am to you.”

“Fuck you,” Enjolras chokes out, because that’s not fair, it’s not fucking fair at all. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself and you have no idea what’s going on around you or who you hurt. I don’t even know if you’re being safe!” 

Grantaire elbows him sharply and stumbles to his feet while wiping his nose on the back of his hand, clumsily crossing the room to find a pair of shoes he can shove on. He falls over when he lifts one leg up but doesn’t let that stop him, and he uses the desk for support as he heaves himself up again. 

Enjolras can’t believe it. “What are you doing?” 

“ _Leaving_.” 

“You can’t go anywhere in this state!” 

“Fuck off, already!” Grantaire grunts, refusing to even look at Enjolras when he swings the door open and hurries out. 

Enjolras should go after him.

He doesn’t.


	24. spring beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while, sorry......i go to art school in london now boop boop!
> 
> fyi, 'freshers' is a uk thing i mention in this chapter. it's the week before you start classes at university and the aim is generally to go out every single night and get as drunk as possible. (my art school freshers has been a month long and i am dead in body and soul RIP)

They’re on a so-called ‘trial separation’, meaning everyone but Enjolras and Grantaire are calling it that. 

They haven’t seen each other since Enjolras dumped all Grantaire’s contraband and Grantaire stormed out in a legless fury. They don’t even speak until two days later, when Grantaire announces via text that he’s gone to stay with Joly and Bossuet while he sweats out another detox. The short message reeks of passive aggression, and the implied _‘I don’t want you breathing down my neck_ _again’_ doesn’t need to be spelled out. 

Enjolras keeps himself busy by taking holiday leave off work so he can start collaborating with the Radical Assembly in Bethnal Green. He outlines an intense two weeks with them; long days with ram packed schedules of planning, preparation, and paperwork mostly. He enjoys it though, being a part of a much larger organisation than the ABC, one where people are genuinely taking him seriously instead of looking at him like a kid. He’s learning a lot too – skills that he can bring back to the ABC and take forward. 

He misses Grantaire though, and there’s only so much he can do to distract himself before the melancholy starts to sweep in, settling in dark pockets all over his body. 

After a while, it becomes apparent that Grantaire feels the same way. They skip the apologies entirely, neither of them particularly wanting to say sorry when they’re not sure they mean it, and they start texting each other throughout the day and having long, pointless phone calls in the evening that Joly and Bossuet always end up being dragged into on speakerphone. 

Enjolras has taken to stopping in at the same café on his way to Bethnal Green each morning. The overground train gets him there in a brisk fifteen minutes but sometimes a long walk while the day starts to unfurl is exactly what Enjolras needs to soothe the constant activity in his brain. On those days, he leaves especially early so he can walk languidly, like he’s still in bed and dreaming of the outside world, sipping piping hot tea from a travel mug. 

Enjolras likes to bring breakfast for the team. They always take turns in bringing coffee for everyone to make sure the ball gets rolling straight away and nobody snoozes off, so Enjolras starts buying bags of pastries and flapjacks to pass around as soon as he gets through the door. Just as he bustles into the café, the tinny bell above the door chiming noisily, his phone buzzes with a notification. 

_I know why Bossuet is always skint_

_he’s a nerd with no impulse control_

_I’m ready to come home now…think my eyes r square_  

Enjolras pockets his phone as a barista calls him up to the counter, and he orders enough coffee and treats to feed a small village. The barista starts making drinks without a second glance, having seen Enjolras rather a lot over the past week and a half. His name is Jamie and he reminds Enjolras of Grantaire more than anything, but it might just be his lopsided half-smile and the cigarette tucked behind his ear. 

While Jamie works smoothly and quickly, Enjolras gets his phone out and pulls up Grantaire’s messages. 

  _What????_ Enjolras types back _. We should do something nice when you return to civilisation._

Grantaire’s reply comes almost immediately. _Dinner on me, I’ll take you out to celebrate ur blossoming political career! I know a place_

_There’s also an exhibition I think you’d like, I can get tickets if you want?_ Enjolras switches tabs to the museum events page he was browsing yesterday and sends the link to Grantaire. 

Grantaire sends back a paragraph of heart-eyes emojis, followed by some more suggestive ones. _Yes!! So saturday, date night?_

_See you then xxx_

“Two cappuccinos, one flat white, and one Americano,” Jamie says, sliding the drinks across the counter in a travel holder. “And your regular assortment of danishes and croissants.” 

Enjolras peeks inside the paper bag that follows, the smell of fresh food perking up his stomach. 

“Plus, the last poppy seed and lemon muffin on the house,” Jamie adds, presenting it in front of Enjolras like a gold trophy. 

“Thanks, I love these.” Enjolras flushes a tiny bit when he picks the muffin up and tosses it in the bag. Jamie probably saw him shove half of one in his mouth yesterday when he wasn’t even out of the door yet. 

“My pleasure; thank you for singlehandedly propping up the business.” 

It occurs to him that Jamie might be flirting, especially when winks at Enjolras as he hands him the receipt. Enjolras’ cheeks turn even pinker but he manages to be cool and smile back, saying, “My boyfriend actually recommended it.” 

Jamie’s expression remains neutral and he waves Enjolras off, looking a little amused if anything. Enjolras shuffles out the door like he’s never been flirted with in his life, but maybe this is just the first time it’s truly flustered him instead of awkwardly going over his head. 

_Anyway, back to bossuet. he owns every single pokemon game that has ever been released…like every variation…it’s wild. have u seen the console cabinet at their place???_

Enjolras stares at his phone and sighs _. Have you slept at all? Please tell me you’ve done something aside from playing games for the past ten days._

_Bossuet said you’d react that way, that’s why he doesn’t talk about it when everyone is around. ur oppressing him._

“Good god,” Enjolras mutters to himself, flat out refusing to grace that message with a reply.

He feels a good mood creeping up from his toes and seeping up through the rest of his body as he walks to work. Most of the organisation for the Radical Assembly happens in a community building that houses several other political groups, regular workshops, and outreach initiatives. Enjolras knew nothing about it until he started working with the Radical Assembly, but it’s everything he wants to do someday. The building is collectively funded by all the groups with the goal of providing outreach services for locals in East London.

He’s working alongside people who started out with their own tiny groups like the ABC and now they’re organising nationwide demonstrations that thousands of people attend. Enjolras knows that a lot of what got him here is luck and privilege – the expensive education and sometimes rubbing shoulders with the right people – but he works himself to bone to prove it’s not just a façade, he’s got substance and a genuine drive for change too. 

\-- 

When Saturday comes, they meet at the British Museum, reunited under the towering columns of the portico at the front entrance. Grantaire, as usual, is a little late and arrives with damp hair and a wide smile.

“I thought you might stand me up,” Grantaire says, eyes flitting everywhere. “I’ve been anxious the entire way here.” 

“I bought the tickets so that would be stupid,” Enjolras replies, grabbing Grantaire’s hand as he moves in for a kiss. 

They misalign and bump noses roughly, their first kiss in two weeks ending up awkward and shaky. 

“You’ve gotten even more attractive, if that’s possible,” Grantaire muses, their faces remaining close enough for Enjolras to feel his breath. 

“Shut up,” Enjolras says half-heartedly, the same thing he always says when Grantaire embarrasses him with compliments. 

Grantaire’s grin is wide and radiant as takes a step back, his jitters already falling away. “No, I won’t.”

They go inside and walk to the exhibition in a comfortable silence. Their hands keep bumping into one another but they just share a private smile and continue through the winding maze of rooms. Their tickets are for a new display about the Greek empire under Alexander the Great – not the most original or ground-breaking show that Enjolras could find, but one that he knows will be special to Grantaire.

They’ve often discussed the contents of the British Museum, even argued over it several times, but Enjolras loves to hear Grantaire talk about Classics and ancient history. He would probably listen to Grantaire recite an extended history of the entire world, but the Greeks and Romans would be particularly brilliant. Enjolras wonders sometimes, about the origin of Grantaire’s interest in Classics, how and why and when he became fixated and needed to find out everything about the period. 

“You’re a sap,” Grantaire says as they hand their tickets over and start perusing the first room. “Nobody would believe that you keep grand romantic gestures up your sleeve.” 

Enjolras shrugs it off, but the fact is that he surprises himself with the things he would do to make Grantaire happy. Sometimes he’s overcome with the desire to spoil Grantaire silly, shower him in kind remarks and do little things for him just so that he can bring out that embarrassed smile of his. Grantaire is always acting up for sheer attention, but when Enjolras gives it to him plainly it’s as though he forgets how to be the brash, obnoxious character he’s created for himself. 

“I love this one,” Grantaire says softly, eyes focused on a bust of Alexander. “I drew it so many times at school. I was obsessed with classical sculpture.”

Enjolras looks at him and sees a glimpse of what might have been in another time – in different circumstances. You can’t tell that destruction lurks beneath his bones or see the trauma that ages his eyes; he’s just a cheeky boy with nerdish passion. Enjolras can imagine it: Grantaire a few years younger, wandering around galleries and museums in skin-tight jeans and ratty jumpers, pausing to make quick sketches every minute. 

Enjolras rests a hand on the small of Grantaire’s back, hoping to keep this version of him safely at his side. Grantaire startles a little before relaxing into the touch, and he stands on his toes to whisper into Enjolras’ ear, “It’s the spitting image of you.” 

“Shut up,” Enjolras grumbles, and he pushes Grantaire away again without much force. He tries not to notice the warm, fluttering sensation in his stomach when Grantaire laughs and makes a grab for his hand. 

“Like you, he was also an unstoppable, blond, force of nature,” Grantaire continues, smirking. “Wanted the world too – and he nearly got it.” 

“I don’t want the world,” Enjolras frowns, following Grantaire to the next room. “I don’t even want power.” 

Grantaire flashes him a terrible grin. “But you need it to get what you want.” 

“Power shouldn’t belong to one person,” Enjolras says for the hundredth time, with Grantaire theatrically miming each word, thumping his fist against his chest while staring intensely toward the ceiling. “Are you ever going to stop making fun of me?” 

“Yeah, when you stop making it so easy.” 

Enjolras sighs as they stop in front of a case full of gold medallions and rings. “It’s not my fault I’m more mature than you. Have you ever considered growing up?” 

“Sounds boring, so no.” 

And just like that, being around Grantaire is easy again. He remembers all the things that made him fancy Grantaire in the first place, his stomach hounded by butterflies like they’ve never been on a date before. They talk about pieces in the exhibition and debate context and historical sources as they circle rooms, Grantaire’s vast and specific classical knowledge putting Enjolras to shame.

It’s never boring with Grantaire, there’s always a challenge or a quip or genuinely interesting line of conversation. It’s so good when it’s good, that Enjolras has to wonder if their bad moments are intrinsically destined to be catastrophic. 

 “Let’s go see the Rosetta Stone,” Enjolras suggests as they near the exit, itching to busy his mind from those kinds of thoughts. 

Grantaire drops his hand and looks at him seriously, one eyebrow raised. “Enjolras, you’ve probably seen that thing a hundred times.”

“Not in a while – I want to see it again.” 

“Seriously? It’s just a slab of rock with some priests pratting on about how wonderful Ptomely is.”

Enjolras doesn’t quite manage to resist rolling his eyes at that. “Come _on_ ,” he presses, and leaves Grantaire pouting behind him as speeds towards the gift shop. 

“Fine, but we’re going straight to the permanent Greek and Roman collection afterwards. I want to see Apollo!” 

Grantaire latches onto his arm to slow him down, and romantic grandeur must overcome Enjolras because he spins Grantaire into him and kisses him on the mouth in the middle of the exhibition. Grantaire looks at him dazedly when he pulls away, his fingers still weakly clinging onto Enjolras’ sleeve. 

Enjolras feels dizzy with adoration, so much so that his cheeks ache with how hard he’s smiling. “Whatever you want, R.” 

After that, Grantaire practically skips over to the Rosetta Stone with his arm linked through Enjolras’, and there’s not a peep out of him the entire time Enjolras recites historical facts that Grantaire already knows. 

They amble unhurriedly from the museum to a French restaurant that Grantaire suggests. It’s a cosy place in Soho named _Blanchette_ , with worn-down brick walls flanking the main dining room and a welcoming orange glow from candles scattered on each table. It’s already heaving diners when they arrive, every seat at the bar occupied by people sharing selections of small dishes of beautifully presented food.

“This place seems upmarket,” Enjolras says discreetly to Grantaire as a server leads them to a table tucked away in one corner. 

Grantaire chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s not very expensive but it’s ridiculously hard to get a table on short notice. They’re usually booked up weeks in advance but I happen to know the owners.” 

“Oh?” 

They sit down and pause their conversation while they listen to the waitress list off the specials in a terribly put-on French accent. Grantaire listens intently with an amused smile and makes easy small talk with her– a second-year language student from the same university as some of the ABC. 

“As I was saying,” Grantaire continues once she’s left the table, “I know the brothers who own the place. An acquaintance of mine had a little private get together here, and they introduced us. Back then I was a lover of fine food so we were fast friends.” 

“Did you have a falling out with fine food?” Enjolras asks, curious about his wording. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes and picks up his menu. “Had other pleasures on my mind that made food seem irrelevant. I didn’t always have a body like a drainpipe.” 

It’s hard to picture. 

There are no old photos of Grantaire, no embarrassing social media profiles dating well back into the noughties, nothing that proves he had a life before he started living with Bahorel and Feuilly. It’s as though Grantaire just pops into existence like a loud blip on both their timelines, without a history or an explanation, much like how he came into Enjolras’ life. 

“Are there any surviving pictures?” Enjolras asks, only half joking. 

 “They all burned in a tragic fire,” Grantaire quips before adding, “I started the fire, obviously.” 

“What suspicious circumstances.” 

“As I said, tragic.” 

“Not even a single photo of you in freshers?”

Grantaire’s theatrically serious expression falters at the mention of university. He recovers quickly and switches to indifference, tilting his head at Enjolras like he didn’t even hear the question. 

“I deleted my Facebook when I left. Besides, _artistes_ don’t have Facebook.” 

Enjolras scoffs. “Well I guess I’ll never know if you were a catch when you were my age.” 

Under the table, Grantaire stamps on his foot while looking extremely offended. He only scowls for a moment though, before his eyes soften and he hooks his ankles around Enjolras’. 

“I’ve missed you.” 

Enjolras’ pulse jumps and he reaches around the empty wine glasses to brush his fingers against Grantaire’s, unbridled joy making him feel a little lightheaded.

  

They make the journey home with linked arms and several stops for tipsy kisses in the street. Usually public displays of affection feel awkward for Enjolras, but the bottle of wine they shared at the restaurant has loosened his limbs and washed any cares he had far away. When Grantaire drops a five pound note into a busker’s guitar case so that he’ll play a romantic song, Enjolras just laughs and lets Grantaire slow-dance with him on the pavement, tourists giggling as they pause to watch them. 

By time they hop on the tube it’s late and there are plenty of free seats, but they decide to stay standing so they can press against each other, swaying with the movement of the carriage while Enjolras holds Grantaire close in one arm and grips the overhead bar with his other hand. 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac are out for the night with Jehan and Marius, so Enjolras suggests they go back to his house to drink more wine and watch television. Once they’re through the door they go straight for the kitchen, carelessly throwing their coats off and kicking their shoes in opposite corners of the room. 

“You haven’t got any wine,” Grantaire says sadly, his head already inside of their designated alcohol cupboard. 

“There should be some in the cupboard under the stairs.” 

Enjolras gets himself a glass of water while Grantaire rummages around in the chaotic mess that always gets shoved in that cupboard whenever they can’t a find a home for things that have been lying around. It’s mostly full of cardboard boxes and cobwebs, but there are a few more exciting things stashed in there. 

“What’s this and why are you hiding it?” 

Enjolras glances up. 

Grantaire stands in the doorway with a wooden crate of wine in his arms, looking like he’s just witnessed the second coming of Christ. 

“It was a Christmas present from my mum,” Enjolras shrugs. “It must have been expensive and I felt weird about taking it. Who needs twelve bottles of fine wine?” 

“ _Me_. I need twelve bottles of fine wine, Enjolras, I would obviously have benefitted from this.” Grantaire cries as he lifts the case onto the counter and cracks it open. “It’s like staring into the face of God.” 

Enjolras snorts and starts hunting for a corkscrew. “I think I prefer cheap wine anyway. It tastes nicer.” 

“You’re not allowed to have a wine opinion.” 

Grantaire starts taking out bottles and reading the labels. 

“Go get your duvet and every blanket in the house. Pop through the window and get mine too. We’re taking all the wine outside and we’re going to sleep _en plein air_. It’ll be just like _Brideshead_. You’ll be Charles and I’m Sebastian of course.” 

“And why is that?” 

“Well I’m obviously the estranged, troubled, heavy-drinking mess, and you’re the sensible one who is dazzled by my charm and wit and ends up falling off the straight and narrow.” 

“Oh yes, of course. Only we’re in my house drinking my wine.”

“Semantics,” Grantaire scoffs indignantly, pulling every single glass out of the cupboards. “I’ll sort this out, you just get the covers – oh, and some jumpers!” 

Enjolras shakes his head and chuckles to himself as he obeys Grantaire’s orders and starts gathering blankets from the living room. He tries to ignore the nonstop clinking of glasses in the kitchen, hoping Grantaire manages not to drop anything and make a mess that neither of them are sober enough to clean up. 

When Enjolras returns with his arms piled high, Grantaire is already outside lining the patio with flickering candles. Enjolras tosses the bed supplies onto the grass and turns his attention to the small crowd of glasses set out on the ground, each one already filled with a modest amount of wine. All twelve bottles are out too, presumably standing behind the corresponding glasses. 

Enjolras whistles. “This is quite a set up.” 

Grantaire quickly jumps to his feet and bends over in a theatrical bow. “Welcome, sir, to an authentic wine tasting experience.”

“Is there a spit bucket?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, this is a serious affair.” 

Rather than grace that with a response, Enjolras goes about spreading a duvet out on the grass for them to sit on, and he passes Grantaire a knitted jumper to put on before they swaddle themselves in blankets. 

Grantaire has a system, it seems, on which order the wines are to be tasted. Enjolras has no clue what that system is, but he lets Grantaire pass him glass after glass and dutifully swirls the liquid around like he knows what he’s doing. He only inhales wine through his nose a couple of times when Grantaire makes him laugh as he’s trying to sniff out the notes, so it’s an overall success. 

 “I liked the fruity one,” Enjolras says some time later, considerably drunker. “Which one was that?” 

“Oh, my God,” Grantaire groans, falling onto his back with his hands over his eyes. “They’re all fruity – it’s _wine_.”

“But the one that tasted like Ribena, that was nice. I want that one. I think it was a rosé.”

Enjolras picks up random bottles, the ordered system long lost by now, and tries to make out the tiny writing on each label with just the light of the moon and candles to see. It would probably help if his eyes could at least focus on the words long enough for them to stay still. 

“Was that the one in a pint glass?” Grantaire muses, his eyes shut.  

“I think I’ve had enough, actually.” 

“I’m not surprised,” Grantaire says, beckoning Enjolras to come lie down with him. “Even I feel a bit wankered.” 

Enjolras grabs the other duvet and pulls it around his shoulders before he flops down facing Grantaire, the garden spinning slightly as Grantaire tucks them into a toasty little cocoon. 

“We should go away some day, get out of London for a little while,” Grantaire says wistfully, like he’s imagining Enjolras lying in a remote countryside field already. 

Enjolras sighs and inches closer. “Sometimes I forget we can just leave whenever we want. It feels like London is my whole life.” 

“If you could go anywhere, where would you go?” 

Enjolras thinks for a moment, thinks of all the faraway places and cultures that he’s never seen first-hand. Then he looks at Grantaire’s face, his squashed cheek and pink flush, and he knows exactly where he wants to go first. 

“Paris. I’d go to Paris.” 

Grantaire breaks out into a beautiful smile, his eyes crinkling. “Ah, _Paris_ , my one true love.” 

“Let’s go together,” Enjolras says, heart hammering in his chest. “Let’s run away and live in a tiny apartment in the city.” 

Grantaire laughs and shuffles closer to Enjolras, finding his hand and linking their fingers together. “We’ll eat croissants in bed and drink wine by the Seine, and I won’t let you wear any clothes at all.”

“You’ll get a job as an artist, showing in all the best galleries.” 

“And I’ll fail – but when money is tight I’ll set up on Montmartre and draw sketches of the tourists.” 

Enjolras snorts at the idea of Grantaire drawing silly caricatures in the biggest tourist trap in Paris. No, he thinks, Grantaire would occupy the Parisian streets just as he does London. He’d fit right in, sitting outside of a café with coffee and a cigarette, maybe wearing his velvet jacket and a black rollneck. 

“Of course, we’ll go to the Moulin Rouge as often as we can,” Grantaire adds, bringing Enjolras’ knuckles to his lips. 

“And what business could we possibly have in the Moulin Rouge?” Enjolras asks slyly. 

Grantaire sighs and closes his eyes, his mouth turned up in a crooked smirk. “All those pretty girls – and you’ll come because you love me.”

Enjolras’ pulse jumps, his fingers tightening around Grantaire’s. He looks at him seriously, impatiently waiting for his eyes to open. “I do.” 

Grantaire blinks at Enjolras quizzically. “What?” 

“I love you,” Enjolras says steadily, feeling more confident in his words than ever. “I’ll love you in Paris and I love you in London and I’ll love you wherever we go.” 

“Really?” 

Enjolras frees his hand so that he can touch Grantaire’s jaw, looking at the guarded hope in his eyes. “Of course.” 

Grantaire is silent for a moment, giving nothing away as he stares right back at Enjolras. Then he moves suddenly, catching Enjolras’ lips in a chaste but lingering kiss. Enjolras moves his hand to Grantaire’s chest, his palm flattened over where his heart is, and he kisses him harder.

Grantaire lets out a heavy breath before rolling Enjolras onto his back, his own body covering him. They lick into each other’s mouths slowly, but it’s heated and intense and Enjolras feels as though his heart might burst. Enjolras slides his hands under Grantaire’s top, his fingers eager to map the span of his back while Grantaire moves against him. 

He tastes like wine and smells like smoke and Enjolras pulls away with a bite to Grantaire’s mouth, watching him framed above him by a murky blanket of stars in the sky. Grantaire hums to himself, tracing his finger over Enjolras’ lips as he breathes deeply. They stay like that for a while, until Grantaire slides most of his weight off Enjolras and lies at his side. 

“I love you too,” Grantaire says eventually, quiet but certain. “I’ve never been in love before. Nothing compares to you.” 

“Say it again,” Enjolras grins, his head spinning. 

“I’m in love with you,” he says more confidently. “I’ve been in love with you for ages but it terrified me.” 

Enjolras kisses him chastely, lingering against Grantaire’s lips. “And now?” 

“I’m still terrified,” Grantaire laughs, turning his head away. “But despite how unlikely it seems, you love me back and I believe you.” 

“I do, I really do.” 

“We’re drunk,” Grantaire points out, a flicker of vulnerability flashing across his face. 

Enjolras makes a sound of frustration and takes hold of Grantaire’s jaw again, forcing him to pay attention. “I mean it more than ever. Do you?” 

Grantaire swallows and nods. When he buries his face in Enjolras jumper, breathing deeply like he might start hyperventilating, Enjolras doesn’t know it’s because he’s trying to hide tears. 

“Let’s sleep out here,” Grantaire says after a while, his voice scratchy.

Enjolras kisses the crown of his head and closes his eyes, hoping to etch this moment into his memory for as long as he lives. “Sure, we might catch the sun rise if we wait a while.” 

“You sap,” Grantaire teases, but he cosies up in Enjolras’ armpit and stares at the light pollution with him for the next hour, chatting on and off about silly things and fond memories. 

Despite burning eyes and heavy exhaustion nipping at their heels, the wait is worth it. The whole sky turns pink and the usual city noises have dissipated into a rare quiet, until the birds start to rustle and chirp in their trees. The sun begins to emerge from the horizon, and Enjolras fights to keep his eyes open just so he can take it all in. 

The illusive cat that Grantaire won’t stop feeding makes an appearance, leaping down from the fence to cautiously tread towards them. Grantaire makes a pleased sound and clicks his tongue to beckon it over, his arm already extended to stroke it’s back as soon as it reaches touching distance. 

“How long has this affair been going on?” Enjolras says in a hushed tone, afraid to disturb the idyllic peace they’ve settled into. 

Grantaire picks the cat up and plops it on Enjolras’ chest so he can lie back on the pillow while scratching under its chin. “We’re mad about each other, just can’t keep away.” 

“Thought you said you weren’t taking in a straggly little thing,” Enjolras points out, echoing the conversation they’d have ages ago on Grantaire’s sofa. “Changed your mind?” 

Grantaire attempts a shrug. “I’ve seen the light. Anyway, we’re not so different. I think we might be kindred spirits.” 

“Has your kindred spirit got a name?” 

“Leonardo,” Grantaire grins. 

Enjolras turns his head and raises an eyebrow. “DiCaprio?” 

“ _Da Vinci_ ,” Grantaire cries. “You uncultured swine.” 

Snorting, Enjolras finally closes his eyes and settles down eagerly for whatever kind of sleep he’ll get outside under encroaching daylight. “Tell Leonardo we’ll discuss the name in the morning.” 

Grantaire grumbles to himself under his breath and talks quietly to the cat for a while longer, before it slinks off to the bottom of the garden and disappears. 

“Don’t break my heart,” Grantaire says quietly, thinking Enjolras is already asleep and won’t hear him. 

Enjolras holds him tighter.

“Don’t break mine.” 

Nothing more is said after that, the gravity of their shared fears silencing any chance of further conversation. It’s soon forgotten anyway after a few minutes of lying pressed against each other in the quiet, gladly giving into sleep while a fox cries out in the distance.

Jehan finds them the next morning when he steps outside for an early cigarette, the sky still streaked in soft orange hues and wispy clouds, and the tops of their heads being the only thing poking out of their mountain of blankets and duvets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u like it, let me know! i'm still proseccohunny on tumblr if u wanna chat or anything! i have a lot of mood boards there


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